


Every Day is Exactly the Same

by Swordy



Series: Every Day is Exactly the Same [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, End of the World, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Dean Winchester, Lawyer Sam Winchester, Medication, Mute Dean Winchester, PTSD, Permanent Injury, Psychological Trauma, Schizophrenia, gencest, psychiatric hospital setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 72,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4159611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set over several years, starting in Season 10, directly after 'The Things We Left Behind'. Shaken by his loss of control during the massacre of the loan sharks and with no way to remove the Mark of Cain, Dean agrees to the next best alternative: retirement. Their peaceful new life doesn't last long when Dean is abducted by someone determined to make him a weapon of mass destruction.</p><p>To save his brother from this terrible fate, Sam needs help from both friends and foes. Saving Dean from himself is another matter entirely...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> My heartfelt thanks goes to the wonderful thruterryseyes who has betaed the fic and helped shape it into the story it is now. After some last-minute alterations, any remaining errors are mine. She’s probably very glad it’s time to post it as she’ll kill me if I fiddle with it anymore! Thank you, hon. Seriously, you've been awesome. The wonderful art to accompany the story is by Liliaeth. Check out her masterpost here: http://liliaeth.livejournal.com/479111.html

_NOW_

“So you think you can work with this?” 

There’s silence, tense and loaded with acrimony, before the smartly-dressed woman gives a terse nod, her lips drawn into a thin line.

“Okay,” Sam says, which appears to be the signal in the room for everyone else to start breathing. “We’ll get the paperwork drawn up and then we can get everything signed.”

People stand. The soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Whitmore collects her purse, gives Sam a brief nod and exits the meeting room. The sound of her Mercedes pulling out of the parking lot can be heard, prompting Mr. Whitmore and his lawyer to also take their leave. Out of eyeshot of his client, Counselor Ross gives Sam a relieved grin and a nod that says the drinks will be on him in the near future. 

Sam throws his files into his briefcase and heads upstairs. He’s barely beyond the threshold of the elevator when he’s greeted by a host of expectant faces.

“She took the deal,” he says simply.

“You’re shitting us,” Steve Addison says, even though he knows Sam wouldn’t lie. “ _Six months_ Paul was trying to get her to accept that settlement. What’d you do, Sam? Throw yourself into the bargain?”

Sam makes a face before he turns and heads to his office at the end of the corridor. Steve follows him, but leans on the doorframe with a stupid grin on his face. 

“You know the old man will probably want to make you a junior partner for this? Good work, buddy. I mean it.”

Sam loosens his tie, knows that information should probably make him happy. He finds a smile that’s purely for show.

“Thanks, man.”

“Drinks later? We’re going to Chasers.”

“Yeah.... I can’t. I’ve got stuff to do.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You need to relax more, buddy. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Never,” Sam lies. “Maybe next time, huh?”

“Next time,” Steve replies, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe before he heads back to his own office.

OoOoO

Sam calls it a day at half past six. The office is empty and he leaves with a quick nod to Henry, the security guard, before heading out. His Dodge Charger is the only vehicle left in the parking lot as he steps into the fading daylight. He makes the twenty minute drive home, eschewing the radio to process the day and think about his appointments for tomorrow. 

Silence greets him as he lets himself into the house. On the side table next to the door, the answering machine blinks, indicating he has one new message. He presses the button, half-listening as he flicks through the mail - Charlie, reminding him about dinner on Saturday night. 

He strips out of his suit and throws on his sweat pants, t-shirt and running shoes before tying his hair back into a messy ponytail. Without warning, he pictures his brother making a derogatory comment about his hairstyle. Thinking of Dean is like a reflex that results in a dull ache rather than the acute pain it once did. He hasn’t decided if that makes him feel better or worse. 

He checks the meal he prepared this morning in his slow cooker, and satisfied that he will be returning to something edible, goes for his run.

The house is two miles from its nearest neighbour and the empty land surrounding the property is perfect for relieving the tensions of the day. He has ten runs mentally mapped, each differing in distance. He wants to get back and showered before he eats, so he chooses the one that takes him approximately forty-five minutes.

Forty-three minutes later and he’s back at the house waiting for the water to get warm so he can step into the shower. The spray is needling and his mind drifts to the facilities at the bunker and the kick Dean got out of finally having somewhere to call home that had the added benefit of awesome water pressure. The dull ache in his chest returns and refuses to be washed away.

Clean and ready to eat, he puts on a faded pair of jeans and a t-shirt from the bedroom. With another twenty minutes before his meal is ready, he grabs his clothes for tomorrow and lays them out on the empty bed in the room next to his own. He wants this to be a habit that he has to stop, but while the room lacks an occupant, he tells himself that it’s practical to make use of the space.

He eats the casserole while reading through some files for a hearing he has first thing in the morning. When he’s done, he washes his dishes and puts them away. He doesn’t bother with the television, instead choosing to read, the living room lit by a solitary lamp. The silence doesn’t bother him exactly, but it’s still something he finds a little alien. Even when they had their own rooms at the bunker, even when they were utterly at odds with each other, Dean was _always_ there, a part of him that he was never truly without.

He fills the void with a little alcohol before turning in for the night. 

OoOoO

The hearing is booked for nine, but as always, he’s at the office well before eight. He’s checking over some papers when there’s a polite tap, followed quickly by the door opening. He glances up. There are very few people who come into his office uninvited.

“Mr. Winestein. What can I do for you, sir?”

His boss is a tall, dapper-looking gentleman in his mid-sixties with absolutely no intention of slowing down. With his suits that reflect his obvious wealth and his immaculate silver-grey hair, Edgar Winestein somehow manages to neatly sidestep looking flashy, which is no mean feat when you’re a lawyer by trade. He’s got that killer instinct – hence the wealth – but he never locked away his moral compass, which is exactly what drew Sam to the company in the first place.

“I heard you got Mrs Whitmore to agree to that settlement,” the older man says as he comes to sit down across from Sam. “That’s some pretty impressive work, son.”

“I can’t take all the credit, it was mostly Paul’s efforts,” he replies, not wanting to seem ungrateful in the face of such congratulations, but also not wanting to diminish his colleague’s role and appearing a glory-hungry asshole.

“I know, and it’s decent of you to say that, Sam, but we also know that you were instrumental in getting her to take the deal, so do me a favour and just accept the praise, okay?”

He smiled and ducks his head, slightly abashed. 

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

“You know, Sam,” Edgar says and he’s now watching Sam shrewdly, “you take on a few more of these more high profile cases and it could open up some real opportunities for you.”

His level of discomfort has now been ramped up to ‘awkward’, but Edgar is a smart man, and he nods. If he’s disappointed by Sam’s response, or lack of it, then he doesn’t show it.

“Can I ask you something, Sam?” Edgar says, “You can tell me it’s none of my business, but were you from a broken home?”

Sam’s head jerks up suddenly, because this question hadn’t even entered his head as a possibility. He knows Edgar will take that reaction as a yes, even though his family was more ‘obliterated’ than ‘broken’.

“It’s just... you seem drawn to cases where there are children involved, like you want to try and ‘fix’ things.”

He’s never really thought about it, but he can see why Edgar would think like that. Maybe his boss has a point. He _is_ more at home with the cases where there are hearts and minds at stake rather than money and status.

“Like I said, it’s none of my business...”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Sam says quickly, because this is the guy that took a chance on him when he was fresh out of college and, more than that, he likes and respects him.

“My parents weren’t divorced – my mom died when I was six months old.”

Edgar looks concerned, but Sam waves it away, because it _is_ okay; this part of his life is seriously old news. 

“I don’t know though – maybe you’re right. I might not have lived through a divorce, but my family life was certainly dysfunctional. Maybe I am trying to fix things-”

“And that’s no bad thing, Sam,” Edgar says firmly. “The world needs lawyers like you. It’s refreshing - plus it balances out all the assholes.”

They share a laugh, then Edgar is looking at him again and he realises that the other man’s concern hasn’t completely gone away.

“Steve tells me you ducked out of drinks again last night,” his boss says. “Far be it from me to tell my employees how to live, Sam, but you’ve been here... just over a year? And I’ve never known you to really let your hair down. Hell, son, I understand being married to the job, but you need other things in your life. Have you any family?”

Sam offers him a quick smile before he looks away again. 

“No wife and kids, if that’s what you mean. I have a brother, Dean. He... he had to go away.” 

He realises as soon as he’s said it how it probably looks to the other man. The last thing he needs is for his boss to think he has employed a man, who for _over twelve months_ has neglected to mention that he has a sibling who is incarcerated. He needs to explain himself better, but the next words that leave his lips feel like a complete betrayal.

“Dean... Dean is mentally ill. He’s at a facility about an hour from here.”

Edgar nods, and for a moment he wonders if a criminal sibling might have been better – more socially acceptable maybe.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, son,” his boss replies. “I hope he’s getting the care he needs.”

“He is.”

The older man nods again and pushes himself up out of the chair. “Well, I’ll let you get on. Like I said before – good work on the Whitmore case, Sam and if you need anything, my door is always open.”

“I appreciate that, sir,” he says.

Once he’s alone, he lets out a long breath. He’s never told anyone about Dean and he wonders what the older man thinks of him now. He thinks of Dean, too, and wonders what is brother is doing. 

The day passes quickly. He barely stops for a second, but he’d be lying if he said he preferred it any other way. His mind is kept active, preventing his thoughts from straying. He knows what his colleagues think about him – they use adjectives such as ‘driven’ and ‘career-minded’, but thankfully they don’t appear to think him ruthless, the kind of lawyer who would throw anyone under a bus just to get ahead. He brings in his share of pastries and didn’t forget any of the secretaries at Christmas and that appears to be enough even though he doesn’t socialise with any of his colleagues out of work.

He leaves the office a little later than the previous day, but his routine doesn’t change. Once he’s home, he checks his messages, runs, showers and then eats, cloaked in the silence of one who lives alone. After dinner, and in response to the one message on his answer phone, he dials a familiar number and sits, waiting for it to be answered. A female voice eventually comes on the line.

“Fox Pines Hospital.”

“Is it possible to speak to Dr. Lomax please? It’s Sam Winchester.”

“Hey, Sam, it’s Megan,” the voice says, warming instantly.

They exchange pleasantries, typical of people with several years’ acquaintance that has developed no further than the professional relationship that introduced them. Megan then states she’ll go and find Dr. Lomax if Sam is okay to hold for a moment.

It’s almost a full minute before the piped version of _Greensleeves_ is abruptly replaced with dead air, followed quickly by a voice.

“Sam? Thank you for calling me back.”

“No problem,” he replies, trying to determine from that one sentence whether this will be bad news or really bad news. Dr. Lomax only ever asks him to call this late if it’s one or the other.

“Is everything okay?”

He hears the good doctor sigh. So, it’s really bad news then.

“I thought we were starting to make some progress, Sam, I really did. We’d started to reduce his medication - I’d even had a conversation with Dean a few days ago about the possibility of him going home for a visit in the future, and then... well, there was an incident earlier today. It seems his delusions are back; he was talking about demons again.”

Sam closes his eyes wearily, relieved that they’re not having this conversation face to face. When he doesn’t respond, the doctor continues.

“He’s been increasingly agitated since then and his current medication doesn’t seem to be helping. With your consent, I want to try him on a different combination of drugs as soon as possible.”

“Fine. Do whatever you think is best,” he replies, massaging the bridge of his nose. He knows he should be asking more questions – _What drugs? What doses? What are the side effects?_ – but they’ve done this dance so many times now, that he’s not sure there’s any point. 

As Dean’s appointed legal guardian, it’s a formality that the medic has to run any treatment options past him, but it’s rare that he objects to anything the doctor suggests these days. The guy seems to genuinely want to help Dean, and all the usual tests have proven that he’s not a supernatural entity in disguise, so there’s no reason to object. He confirms that he will be over to visit Dean on Sunday and they end the call. 

The main reason for his lack of objection is he knows Dean will agree with the doctor’s recommendations regardless of his feelings on the matter. Dean acquiesces to all of it willingly because it was his choice to go there in the first place. With hindsight, he’d never have let Dean stay there if he’d realised. It’s yet another regret in a life-long list of them.

OoOoO

_THEN_

They arrive back at the bunker. Sam turns the engine off and they sit side by side, like two statues, in the car. Castiel has disappeared with Claire – she refused to ride with Dean, which Sam can’t blame the teenager for _at all._ Dean did, after all, just massacre four men, including the man Claire considered the father figure she so desperately needed after Jimmy Novak’s body was commandeered for heavenly purposes.

Sam closes his eyes for a moment, but the image of his brother kneeling among the carnage is the unhappy consequence of this action. It doesn’t help that he can still smell the blood, mainly because Dean is wearing it like an extra layer of clothing.

“Dean?” he says, turning to study his brother’s profile as he sits, unmoving, in the passenger seat. “We’re home.”

Dean doesn’t respond until Sam opens the car door, the familiar creak of the hinges somehow drawing his brother from his stupor. He follows Sam, but once they’re inside he stands, like a lost soul waiting for guidance.

“Come on,” Sam says, “You need to shower.”

A shower is ridiculously low on the list of what Dean needs right now, but it’s the one thing they can address with relative ease. Dean goes into the bathroom and closes the door, but it’s a long time before Sam hears any signs of movement from within. He’s about to knock and ask Dean if he’s okay when the shower starts up and he takes that as his cue to leave.

Sam gets changed and is making a cursory attempt at dinner when Dean wanders into the kitchen. He’s dressed in a Henley and sweatpants and his feet are bare. Dean’s expression is so blank it’s terrifying and Sam turns his attention to the pan of soup he’s stirring as it heats through, like the task requires his undivided attention.

“You hungry?” he asks to break the silence.

When Sam doesn’t get an answer, he risks a glance to see Dean holding his arm, his expression pained like the Mark physically hurts him. Maybe it does.

“You okay?”

Dean looks up suddenly, liked he’d forgotten Sam was even there. 

“We need to go over everything again,” he says, rubbing at the scar as he speaks. “We must have missed something; there’s gotta be a way to get rid of it.”

Sam nods, _hates_ the pessimist within him that says that there isn’t – or at least there isn’t a way that won’t end bloody for his brother. He also hates that if that’s the only option, Dean will take it without hesitation.

“Let’s eat and then we’ll get to it.”

OoOoO

A week later and they’ve still got fuck-all. 

Every day – every _minute_ – that they don’t come up with something increases Sam’s fears for his brother, because it’s clear Dean’s still freaked by what he did when their simple rescue attempt went sideways. He’s quiet, sleeps minimally and he eats mechanically, without enjoyment and only when Sam tells him to.

When a second week continues in completely the same vein, Sam knows that he needs to put voice to the idea that has been burrowing in the corners of his mind, the seed that has germinated through spending this downtime with Dean. Over the last fourteen days, the prolonged research (or more specifically, the break from hunting) has had a positive effect on his brother; like keeping him away from the threat of violence is allowing Dean better control over the Mark’s influence. He’s stopped rubbing his arm and the disconcertingly vacant look has disappeared from his eyes. 

When Castiel returns to say he’s got nothing either – Metatron won’t talk and he’s in agreement that there probably _isn’t_ any lore on the Mark, given how old it is - Sam decides that it’s time to share his idea. He knows Dean’s going to hate it, so he doesn’t waste any time working on his sales pitch.

“We need to retire,” he says as he sits across the table from Dean, whose head is in his hands. After a beat, Dean looks up, his expression shifting from despair to confusion.

“Excuse me?”

“Seriously, just hear me out, okay?” Sam closes the tome he was reading, ignoring the dust that puffs out from between the pages as he pushes it to one side.

“Since we’ve been back at the bunker, I’ve been watching you.”

“And _that’s_ not creepy,” Dean replies, making a face. Sam makes an irritated one in return.

“And it seems to me like you can control the Mark when we’re just living like everyday people, so I think if we can’t get rid of the Mark, we need to get rid of the situations that encourage it to act.”

Dean frowns, like on some level this is making sense, but also not.

“So what are you saying, Sam? I just stay here in the bunker for the rest of my life?”

“No,” he replies, his growing enthusiasm for the idea sparking the hope that maybe it could work. “We get out completely, of The Life, _everything_.”

“Leave the bunker?”

“Leave the bunker. We go buy a house, in the middle of nowhere if we need to, and we make a life for ourselves that doesn’t involve hunting in any way, shape or form.”

Dean’s casting around for a reason to protest, so Sam moves in for the kill. It’s emotional blackmail, but weapons are weapons and at times like this, it doesn’t pay to be picky.

“We’ve got nothing on removing the Mark, Dean, so we have to go with the next best option, which is you learning to live with it and controlling it. The easiest way to do that is for us to get out.”

Dean seems to process this for a moment. He draws a hand across the stubble on his chin, still frowning slightly.

“Okay, I hear you, but why wouldn’t we just stay here?”

Sam takes a breath, determined not to show his frustration. 

“Because the bunker _is_ hunting, Dean. If we stay here, we’ve got no chance of leaving The Life behind and we’ll be hogging all this information. The world needs hunters, I totally agree, but maybe it’s time that we stepped out of the fray and let someone else take over.”

“Yeah? Like who?”

“I don’t know,” he replies. He should have known Dean would expect him to have all the answers. 

“We can start to think about that, but I don’t think it’s a bad plan. At least, consider it, okay?”

OoOoO

Sam fully intends to prime Castiel about his plan, but the angel appears at the bunker while he’s out getting groceries. He returns to find Cas and his brother sitting at the table, and it’s clear he’s interrupted something by the way that they both turn to look at him and neither of them speak for a moment. Never one to fully appreciate the subtleties of human communication, Castiel breaks the silence.

“Dean was just telling me that you want to retire from hunting.”

Dean rolls his eyes, clearly having forgotten that Cas still needs explicit instructions along the lines of ‘don’t tell Sam what we were talking about, okay?’ Sam rolls his eyes, too, because it would be typical of Dean to present the solution in such a simplistic manner, leaving out all of the well-reasoned logic about why it could possibly work, in order to make it look like a stupid idea.

“I was just about to tell Dean that I think it sounds like an excellent plan.”

Sam doesn’t quite drop his grocery bags, but he’s still a little stunned by the comment. He glances at Dean, trying to judge if what he’s seeing on his brother’s face is more resignation than annoyance. He thinks it might be.

“If the Mark can’t be removed, then you need to find a way to live with it,” Castiel says and Sam wonders if he _did_ manage to speak to Castiel beforehand and just forgot about it. “Retiring will keep you out of harm’s way.”

“But I’m a hunter,” Dean responds desperately. “I dunno how to make a life beyond that – look how well it worked out with Lisa and Ben and, fuck knows, I tried. Living out in the sticks isn’t what I was meant for. I’m supposed to die bloody for Christ sakes!”

“But with the Mark of Cain, _lots_ of people could die bloody with you, Dean. Innocent people.”

Dean ducks his head, knowing everything Castiel says is true. Sam waits a beat, but honestly, he thinks Cas has done enough.

“So are we out?” he asks quietly.

Dean glances at Cas and then looks at him, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Dean then nods and the action is so slight that Sam could almost believe he’d imagined it.

“Yeah... We’re out.”

OoOoO

_NOW_

On Saturday morning he wakes just after seven and lies staring at the ceiling for a while. He contemplates getting up and going for a run, but the rain is hammering against the windows and his calves are still tight and stiff from last night’s exertions, when he took the longest route around the property, so he decides against it.

He dresses in some old clothes, ignoring the stab of nostalgia when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror wearing jeans and a worn plaid shirt. Once he’s eaten breakfast, he goes into the garage, sidestepping carefully around the tarp-covered Impala in search of his tools.

To this day he can still picture Dean’s incredulous expression when they’d first viewed the house. The real estate agent had described it with the typical euphemisms – ‘ _needs a little TLC’, ‘an ideal project_ ’. Dean had snorted and advised the man that ‘shit-hole’ would have been a better choice of wording, yet despite all the building’s problems, they’d bought it.

The price had been easily manageable from the money Bobby had left them, and the fact that it needed so much work was actually a plus, since Dean was without a way to occupy his time now that they were retired.

The reality is that very little actually got done. Dean’s list of jobs that he’d drawn up in those early weeks remains pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen, faded with time. Sam refuses to acknowledge the number of years that have passed since those first, hopeful days. He also refuses to consider that Dean may never return home to complete them himself.

He takes the tools back into the house and lays them out on the floor in the entrance hall. He’s finally made a start sanding the floorboards in the dining room and it’s a shitty, dusty job that he’s hating every minute of. He never fully understood his brother’s love of getting stuck into a task like this and he reluctantly acknowledges the brief pang of resentment that Dean’s not here to do it for himself.

He stops for a quick lunch before throwing in the towel mid afternoon. Dinner with Charlie is at seven and he’s got a three hour drive ahead of him, so unless he wants to arrive covered in sawdust he needs to down tools and go get ready. His joints ache through working the sander, but at least the floor is finally done. For now though, varnishing will have to wait.

Freshly showered and changed, he sets off to meet Charlie. He takes wine and an overnight bag and drives at a steady seventy-five when he gets onto the freeway. The journey is so automatic that it’s easy for his thoughts to drift. He puts on the radio, singing along every so often or tapping the steering wheel when the DJ plays a song that he recognises. 

He feels like a dinosaur when there are so many artists he doesn’t know – one of the admin girls at the office had laughed when he’d admitted that although he’d heard the name Taylor Swift, he hadn’t actually known whether the singer was male or female for a long time. He sticks with the more modern radio station though, because he knows there will be fewer reminders of Dean.

He reaches his location, steeling himself for the cavalcade of emotions that hit him whenever he returns to the first place they ever really thought of as home. The bunker looks as abandoned as ever, but as he approaches the entrance he hears the whir of machinery and the door opens on its own.

He steps inside after a moment’s contemplation. 

“Charlie?”

“Hey, Sam,” comes the reply from somewhere off to his left. “Come on in.”

He’s halfway down the stairs when Charlie appears. She’s grinning and she waits for him at the bottom, her arms open, ready to embrace him.

“What’s with the door?” he asks.

She ducks her head, still smiling. “Just trying something new.”

“Yeah? Where’s the sensor?”

“I replaced one of the rivets. If you didn’t notice it, then my work is done.”

“So what is it? A motion detector? Camera?”

“Motion detector, camera, heat signature reader, retina scan, a few other things. Basically the door opened because you are _you_.”

“Cool,” Sam says, impressed.

Charlie shows him some other improvements she’s made around the bunker since he last visited. Some of the science goes over his head, but he’s impressed with what she’s done. Her genius skills with technology have married perfectly with the decades of research contained within the bunker; she truly is a Woman of Letters and he tells her so. She blushes and talk then turns to dinner, which to be fair, she’s _not_ quite as genius at.

Over the meal she asks Sam’s advice on a number of cases, both things she’s working on and for other hunters that she networks with. She always asks his permission first, given that he was so clear that he and Dean were retiring, but in truth, he’s always happy to help. She has some Enochian that she needs translating and he agrees to look at it after they’ve eaten. He hates to think of all that study – as grudgingly as he engaged in it when his father was around – going to waste.

There’s a natural lull in their conversation, the silence filled only by the clink of cutlery. Sam knows what’s coming next – it would impossible to visit and not to talk about the person who should be sitting across from them at the table.

“So how’s Dean doing?” Charlie asks, clearly figuring they should get around to it sooner rather than later.

Sam chews and swallows, glad for the brief opportunity to decide how he frames his response.

“I’m going to see him tomorrow. His doctor called yesterday though; he wants to change his medication. Apparently Dean’s started talking about demons again.”

Charlie raises her eyebrows. 

“Do you know why?”

“Well, his doctor said he’d talked to Dean about reducing his medication and him maybe being able to go home in the future.”

If possible, Charlie’s eyebrows go even higher as she nods in comprehension. She’s known the situation long enough to see the pattern.

“I’m gonna try and talk to him again tomorrow, but honestly? I feel like nothing I say to him will ever change his mind. I’ve tried, Cas has tried...” He puts his cutlery down, aware he’s about to voice his deepest fears. 

“Sometimes I think I should just let him go, you know? If I stop trying to get him out of there, then he’ll stop...”

“Telling them the truth?”

Sam nods and huffs a humourless laugh.

“Let’s face it – Dean only has to talk about a _fraction_ of what we’ve seen to look bat shit insane, and he knows that. I get that he’s freaked, Charlie, and yeah, I get that he _is_ damaged by everything that happened to him, but I _hate_ seeing him in there. Most of the time, he’s on enough drugs to knock out a goddamned elephant and on the rare occasions that he’s lucid enough for conversation, he insists this is how he wants it.”

He shakes his head. He’s more resigned than frustrated these days, but talking about it tends to reignite his irritation. Dean _isn’t_ crazy – or at least not in the way the doctors think he is – yet he’s chosen to let them treat him that way. Paranoid schizophrenia. Full-blown delusions and auditory hallucinations. A textbook case. 

“I’ve never stopped looking,” Charlie says softly, cutting into his thoughts. “If there’s a way to get rid of the Mark then we’ll find it. I’ve got a couple of things I’m chasing up. Italy again, believe it or not.”

Sam nods. It’s heartening that they’ve got friends still out there trying, but he’d by lying if he said that his hope hadn’t faded with the passage of years.

Conversation turns onto other things. Charlie’s relationship with Dorothy is still going strong, even though Oz commands most of the latter’s time. Sam’s glad she’s found someone though – someone who _knows_ what this life is and accepts it fully. He and Dean had each other, which he knows is the only reason they lasted as long as they did. 

Even though they’re no longer hunting, he hates the thought that he’s all alone now. 

OoOoO

_THEN_

“Dean? Have you got those boxes?”

“Yeah. You wanna tell me when you accumulated so much shit?”

Sam scowls as Dean enters the house carrying another large cardboard box, the expression deepening when he notices that, at some point back at the bunker, Dean had scrawled ‘ _Sam’s stupid crap_ ’ on the side of the box in black marker pen. 

“Did you pick your room?” Dean asks, peering around the box.

“Either’s good with me.”

“Okay, I’m just gonna dump this at the top of the stairs until you decide.”

The house officially became theirs last Tuesday. Sitting outside of the town of Harmony, Kansas, the ramshackle homestead had belonged to a retired farmer, who’d died several years earlier. With no living children, the property had been sold by distant relatives in Wisconsin, who’d had no interest in its upkeep prior to its sale. The neglect is obvious.

At first they’d agreed that they’d do some of the necessary jobs before they moved in, but with the bunker a good three hours drive away and a growing desire to start this new chapter of their lives, they decided to move in straight away.

As Dean had correctly pointed out, whatever chaos they had to put up with while they renovated the house, they’d almost certainly lived in worse.

Charlie calls to find out how they’re getting on and to ask them where she’ll find the keys to the bunker’s fuel store. It’s strange to be talking about the bunker when it’s someone else’s new home, but the enthusiasm in her voice tells Sam that they made the right choice.

Once they’d made the decision to retire and found the house, they’d had to put serious effort into thinking about who would replace them. Garth’s name had come up – when they’d dealt with the spectre in Missouri, it was clear he was adopting the ‘hunter’s go-to man’ role, vacated by Bobby after his untimely death. The bunker would make an ideal base of operations for someone like that, and Garth had proven himself trustworthy, if not a little unorthodox in his methods.

Now though, Garth has a family (also unorthodox) and his focus has shifted from hunting to ensuring he doesn’t _become_ hunted, so he’s discounted from their short list of possibilities. Dean then suggests Jody, but despite her growing knowledge and experience of all things supernatural, Jody is a cop first and a hunter second. With Alex now in her care, they agree that she’s got enough on her plate without taking on the bunker as well.

So Charlie then. The more they talk about her, the more logical it seems. Charlie - currently off in Oz, in search of adventure - would make an ideal guardian of the Men of Letters bunker, if she wants the job, of course.

They re-do the ritual to open the door to Oz and summon her. Twenty-four hours later and Charlie is back, naturally worried about why they need to see her. Dorothy is with her and it’s clear from the looks and little touches they share that their relationship is going well. 

Together they outline to both women what’s happened since they left. They tell them about Metatron, Ezekiel – losing Kevin. Sam glances at Dean. Charlie needs to know details, but he _hates_ watching Dean beat himself up all over again about the repercussions of the decisions he made back then.

The Mark of Cain is the next unavoidable subject of their discussions. After Sam provides the explanation, Dean dutifully pushes his sleeve up to reveal the biblical symbol carved into his flesh. It’s pale, like an old keloid scar, at the moment. In truth it doesn’t look like much, and it’s clear the women can’t comprehend the enormity of what the Mark means. Sam looks at his brother again and Dean nods. _Tell them what I did._

So Sam does. His brother listens with his head bowed as Sam tells them about Dean’s death and subsequent resurrection. He doesn’t mention the months of howling at the moon with the King of Hell, but he does tell them about Castiel and Claire and the loan sharks that Dean massacred quickly and brutally with only minor provocation. 

Before they can start picturing the horrific scene, Sam describes how desperately they’ve hunted for a way to remove the Mark and that, so far, all efforts have failed. It’s hopefully painting a clear picture about why they’re about to walk away from hunting –and their home - for good.

As they reach the end of their summation of recent events, Sam can feel his anxiety growing. If Charlie says no, they haven’t got a Plan B. Sam knows that even without someone to take over the bunker he’d still be up for retiring – Dean, on the other hand, will be the one who can’t let go, even though the cost would undoubtedly be greater for him.

They tell Charlie to think about it – no good will come if they rush her to make a decision. In the end though, it’s what they wanted to hear. The following morning, having spoken to Dorothy at length, she tells them that she’ll do it, that the Men of Letters legacy will continue after the Winchesters have left.

Charlie’s training begins immediately. They assure her they’ll only leave once she’s ready, but she’s a quick learner, and it soon becomes apparent that they can move on when _they’re_ ready. It still feels a little strange to think that that day is actually here.

Dean carries on bringing in their belongings from the U-Haul they’ve rented, while he goes out to find them dinner and some well-deserved beers. They eat Chinese food sitting on the floor amongst the boxes and packing crates, the radio, tuned to Mullet FM or something similar, playing somewhere in another room.

“Here’s to us,” Dean says, holding out his beer. Sam grabs his bottle off the floor and brings them together with a soft clink. 

“Well, Sammy, I guess this is the first day of the rest of our lives, huh?”

Dean’s attempting levity, but Sam knows his brother is as uncertain about what they’re doing as the day that he agreed to retire.

“It’ll be okay, you know,” he replies, waiting for Dean to look at him. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, rolling his eyes, “so long as this dump doesn’t fall in on us, it’ll be awesome.” 

OoOoO

Admittedly the first few weeks are closer to ‘okay’ than ‘awesome’. They both seem to be getting used to the new routine – the work on the house keeps them busy - but Sam knows Dean is still checking the news for stories that could be potential hunts. They pass them onto Charlie, who has moved into the bunker, or they call other hunters so they can go check it out, but secretly Sam wishes his brother would just stop looking.

He watches Dean like a hawk those first few weeks. The Mark of Cain remains his primary concern, but he also knows his brother is prone to depression, and the severing of the connections to their old lives – in reality, the _only_ life his brother has even known – could almost certainly be a catalyst for Dean to sink into the mire.

But there’s nothing to suggest that that’s happening. Dean drinks, but no more than usual and he talks about his plans for the house with enthusiasm. Sam never sees him rubbing the Mark, and when he asks if Dean’s okay, his brother insists that he is, and not in that half-hearted way that says he’s too weary to even lie convincingly. 

Two months pass. Dean continues to work through his never-ending list of jobs, but it’s slow going because although he’s handy with a wrench and a hammer, he isn’t a trained tradesman and the house needs a _lot_ of work – or ‘an almighty fucking miracle’ as Dean has suggested. Still, the plumbing is now more hit than miss and it doesn’t feel like every window has been left open when the temperature drops at night.

For Sam, the biggest news is his decision to return to school to complete his law degree. Although he’d never deny he liked the idea, it’s Dean who floats the suggestion one evening. ‘ _Let’s face it, Sammy, you make a lousy tradesman_ ’, he says after a day spent laughing at Sam’s attempts to screed a floor. When Dean mentions it again the following morning, without the hint of amusement in his eyes, Sam starts to consider the idea more seriously. 

His biggest reservation and coincidentally the biggest stumbling block is that all of the qualifications he has are attached to Sam Winchester, once occupying a slot on the FBI's Most Wanted list, now deceased. Dean's already thought of this though, and assures Sam that Charlie is dealing with it. Whether he goes to school or not, a little doctoring of their records makes sense so at least they can live without having to look over their shoulders all the time. Sam wonders why they didn't do this sooner. 

A week later and Charlie calls to say it's done. Sam and Dean Winchester still exist and haven't had so much as a _parking ticket_ between them in their unremarkable lives. Sam now has the necessary exam results to get him into college and, in a move that makes his brother laugh, Charlie has upgraded Dean’s G.E.D to a full high school diploma.

Next come the college prospectuses. Before long, he’s signed up to an accelerated two-year programme in Topeka and waiting for the semester to start.

Dean grins as he emerges from the house, head to toe in dust, and heads to where Sam is sitting, filling out yet another form to green light his college career. There’s an incongruous patch of clean skin around his mouth as he pulls off the dust mask, like a reverse stubble, and as he scrubs a hand through his hair, a cloud of black dust is sent into the sky.

“Looking good,” Sam says, grinning back.

“Screw you,” Dean says, accepting the beer that Sam hands him out of the cooler. 

“You want a hand?”

Dean’s taking a well-deserved drink, so he waves a hand in lieu of a response until he’s done.

“Don’t worry about it, Princess. No one’s gonna trust a lawyer with calluses and dirty nails.”

Sam smiles as he takes a drink of his own beer. He studies Dean carefully for a moment.

“You sure you’re okay with this?”

Dean frowns even though he knows what Sam’s referring to.

“We’ve discussed this, Sam.” Dean’s smile fades momentarily. “If your only misgiving about going back to school is you think I’m gonna be lonely or suicidal or something, then you need to give me a little bit more credit.”

He stops, then the grin is back.

“Besides, the odds of me needing a lawyer at _some_ point in my life are pretty good, don’t you think?”

Sam rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. They’re both in a good place at the moment. He’s not sure about the odds of them staying there, but he can hope.

OoOoO

_NOW_

He leaves the bunker around lunchtime the following day. He promises Charlie that he’ll update her on how Dean’s doing, since he’s going straight to the hospital to visit his brother. 

Fox Pines is an imposing looking building set at the end of a winding, tree lined driveway. The aesthetics have been carefully considered, all designed to conceal the bars and locks that give away the fact that leaving is not an option for the people contained here.

Sam pulls into the parking lot, not surprised to find it almost empty. It’s fair to say that most of the people in here don’t get many visitors. Getting in can be a painful experience, depending on who is working when he visits. Some of the staff have known him for years, and he passes through the security checks with the minimum of scrutiny. There are others - the ones who smile and insist that they’re ‘just doing their jobs’ that he has no choice but to grit his teeth and endure. He certainly doesn’t want to piss off anyone who may also be responsible for Dean’s care.

Once he’s proved that he’s not going to try and bust Dean out or give him anything he could use to harm himself with, he’s escorted through the endless white corridors to what is optimistically called ‘the family room’. The nurse tells him Dr. Lomax has asked to see him first, so she’ll fetch the doctor before someone goes to find Dean. Sam knows ‘find’ is entirely the wrong word since Dean is only ever in his room when he’s not obliged to be somewhere else.

He studies the view out of the window while he waits. If this place was a hotel, the grounds would be described as picturesque, but for the hospital they represent a world few in here will ever get to visit. Fox Pines has developed a reputation for housing long term cases, the most difficult patients with the worse prognosis. Their emphasis is still on rehabilitation, where possible, but they also don’t seem to be under any illusion that some of their patients are here for the long haul. Sam wonders when Dean became one of that unenviable group.

“Sam?” 

He turns from the window as Dr. Lomax enters the room. The man’s been Dean’s primary physician for the past two years and, fortunately, doesn’t seem to be ready to wash his hands of Dean and his endless problems just yet. They shake hands and the doctor gestures for Sam to sit with him. 

“How’s Dean doing today?” Sam asks, not prepared to discuss anything else until he knows how his brother is.

“Better. We started him on the new meds yesterday, so we’ll be monitoring him closely to check he doesn’t have any adverse reactions to the combination, but so far he seems to be calmer.”

“When we spoke on the phone on Friday, you said there’d been an incident,” Sam says. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Dr. Lomax nods, his exhale not quite a sigh. 

“As I said, Dean has been doing well in our sessions. We’ve spoken about a range of things recently, one of which was trying to reduce his medication to alleviate some of the side effects he experiences. We’d also had a conversation about him going home – just visits at first, but I was hopeful that it might lead to further positive steps for him. That was a few days before Friday’s incident. 

“We’re not sure how, but somehow he got his hands on a marker pen. Overnight, he did this.”

The doctor reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a photograph that he passes to Sam. The image shows Dean’s room. The decor is minimalist meets mental asylum – a bed and a set of drawers, the walls a soft blue to provide a supposedly calm environment – but it’s Dean’s home improvements that the doctor wants him to see.

On every surface his brother has drawn sigils, although they’re sloppy re-productions of the ones Dean’s always been able to draw from memory. Sam recognises them instantly – they’re all warding sigils, against demons, angels and everything in between. Sam thinks of _The Shining_ and Jack Torrance’s _All Work and No Play Makes Jack a Dull Boy_ message, written over and over at the Overlook Hotel.

“When Sebastian went in to him in the morning, Dean was still drawing them and he didn’t react kindly to being asked to stop.” Dr. Lomax gestures to the picture in Sam’s hand. 

“The sheer number of those symbols meant he must have been doing it all night. As you know, Dean receives medication to help him sleep, so we assumed at first that he’d deceived the orderly the previous evening and discarded the pills, but it seems that he’d taken his meds as usual – he’d just powered through the drug’s effects so he could do this.”

That explains the shaky lines. Sam hands the photograph back; he’s seen enough.

“I’m afraid he had to be restrained – as I said, he wasn’t happy that Sebastian told him to stop. When I talked to him afterwards, he started to tell me about demons again.”

Dr. Lomax looks unhappy and, in truth, Sam can’t blame him; it can’t be easy to be a doctor and have a patient who defies all your attempts to help them. To the uninitiated, all Dean’s rambling about demons and possessions sounds completely and utterly insane.

“A lot of it was information he’s told me before - that demons can possess people and that he has the tattoo on his chest to prevent them from being able to use him as... what’s the term he uses.... as a meatsuit?”

Sam nods mutely. As the doctor says, this is old news. Dean’s never actually mentioned that Sam has the same tattoo – Dean is always careful to ensure he paints himself as the _only_ crazy member of the Winchester family, equally confident that Sam will never out himself either. Sam hates that Dean is right – he’s worked hard to create himself a life, post-hunting, and he’s not about to blow it by telling Dean’s doctors that everything his brother tells them is the truth.

From a slightly less selfish standpoint, they need the money he earns if he’s to respect Dean’s wishes and allow him to stay here. It’s a shitty situation to be in, and he hates it now as much as he did when Dean first got himself locked away. He belatedly realises Dr. Lomax is still talking.

“When I asked him about what he did in his room, he told me the symbols were to keep the demons away. He also said that some of them would keep angels away too, because they could be as bad as the demons at times. I believe he called them ‘feathered douchebags’.”

Sam wants to smile – the insult is so like Dean that he wants to believe that his brother is not the man so damaged by his circumstances that he would prefer to be seen as having a serious mental illness than be allowed to live freely.

“Since he was being so candid, I tried to ask him about the brand on his arm, but he still refuses to speak about it or why he insists on keeping it covered. He just says people will get hurt. I don’t know if it’s a threat or not, but I didn’t want to push him.” 

The doctor’s expression is sympathetic. 

“I’m sorry, Sam. I know this must be hard to hear.”

Sam nods. It is, but not exactly for the reasons Dr. Lomax thinks.

“At least it wasn’t blood this time,” the doctor adds, like he senses Sam needs to find a positive in this situation.

“I appreciate your efforts to help my brother,” he says by way of reply. “And if Dean explains why he did it, I will of course tell you.”

“Thank you,” the doctor replies as he stands up. “I’ll get someone to bring Dean in now.”

“Thanks.”

A few minutes pass before the sounds of approaching feet can be heard on the linoleum in the corridor. The door opens, and Steve, a white-uniformed orderly steps into the room.

“Here he is,” Steve says brightly to Dean. He’s been here a number of years and Dean’s said he’s a good guy. As Dean steps past him, Steve turns his attention to Sam.

“Just give me a shout if you guys need anything,” he says, before he closes the door, leaving the brothers alone. 

Dean moves into the room. His gait is best described as ‘shuffling’, which instantly sets Sam on edge because it’s clear Dean’s on some seriously strong drugs. He’s dressed in the obligatory hospital uniform of grey t-shirt and sweatpants, a plastic identity bracelet a permanent adornment around his wrist. On his feet he’s wearing the soft canvas deck shoes Sam brought him a few weeks ago, mainly because he couldn’t stand to see his brother spending his days in slippers. His right forearm sports the familiar bandage, hiding the Mark of Cain from sight.

Ignoring the clothing choices, it’s both painful and a relief that Dean still looks like Dean. When Dean was first institutionalised – admittedly at his lowest point - he resisted all attempts to get him to maintain his personal appearance. His hair looked okay a little longer, but without regular washing, it grew greasy and straggled. Combined with the beard and deathly pallor, Dean aged almost overnight, until Sam could hardly bear to look at him. 

Slowly, he was able to talk Dean around until it became like some bizarre quid pro quo – he let Dean assume the role of crazy so long as he didn’t _look_ like he was. Every few weeks, Sam is allowed to bring clippers into the hospital to ensure that Dean holds up his end of the bargain and still looks like the brother he knows and loves. 

Razors are categorically banned at Fox Pines, but Dean is permitted to use an electric shaver to keep him looking reasonably tidy, although the side effects of the strong medication he’s on makes it difficult for him to get the necessary hand control. At first, Sam had to shave him when he visited, but there are now a couple of staff members that Dean will allow to help him, so that the growth isn’t too bad by the time that Sam comes by for his weekly visit.

So the result is that the physical changes to his brother are minimal, but catastrophic all the same. His frame has lost some of its bulk through lack of physical exercise and all of his facial expressions – good and bad – are deadened by the powerful anti-psychotics he’s prescribed. The prolonged use of these drugs have provided him with a host of unwelcome side effects – muscle spasms and tremors, that might never go away even if he was ever to come off the drugs that caused them in the first place.

He sits down opposite Sam, looking neither pleased nor put out that Sam is here. His arms are faintly bruised, a result of being physically restrained no doubt.

“Hey,” Sam says, giving him the once-over.

“Hey, yourself.”

“How you doing?”

“Dandy,” Dean replies, listlessly. His voice has a dysarthric quality to it thanks to the drugs, like gravel sliding down an endless slope.

“So,” Sam says, trying hard not to sound irritated. “You wanna tell me what that was all about the other day? D’you still think something’s coming? I mean, you’ve been saying it for _years_ , Dean.”

Dean’s eyes slide across to him to give him a look that Sam can’t identify before they drop to stare at the floor again. A faint smile appears on his lips. Sam wants to blame the drugs for stealing his brother’s ability to control his facial expressions, but he knows the real reason for Dean’s amusement, no matter how slight.

“You didn’t think it was an improvement?” he replies, avoiding the question.

Sam glares. Dean’s smile fades in response.

“Come on, Sam,” Dean says wearily, waving a hand as if he can fend off his brother’s irritation. “We’ve been through this. I can’t let them think that they’re _fixing_ me.”

“Oh yeah, because _not_ being pumped with a cocktail of unnecessary drugs and being allowed to live freely in your own home is such a terrible thing,” Sam replies, his sarcasm biting.

Dean fixes him with a look, angry and wounded. 

“You make it sound like I’ve got a choice. You said you wouldn’t let anything happen to me and look how well _that_ worked out.”

The words sting like a slap. This isn’t the first time that Dean has fired this particular weapon, but it hurts every time because his aim is straight and true, and it always hits the festering wound of Sam’s own guilt.

Sam doesn’t respond – he’s said sorry so many times over the years that it’s pointless saying it again. He _would_ if he thought it would reveal a fraction of the guilt he feels over what happened. Dean’s never looking for an apology though – it’s just one of the few things his brother has power over in his shitty life right now and he likes to wield it when he needs to score a cheap point. Dean huffs a sigh.

“Yeah, well, so what’s new with you? How’s things at work, Ally McBeal?”

“It’s okay,” Sam replies, ignoring the jibe, knowing Dean doesn’t really want the details. “I saw Charlie yesterday.”

Dean nods. Sam notices Dean’s got his hand wrapped around his forearm. Whether that’s something to do with Mark or just to control the tremors, he isn’t sure.

“How is she?”

“She’s good. The bunker’s looking good too,” he adds, because Dean always wants to know about their old home. “She’s still looking for info on removing the Mark.”

Dean rolls his eyes at that, the effect slightly lost by the drug-dampened way his eyes move lethargically around his head.

“I hope you told her not to waste her time. She should be using the bunker’s resources for shit where she can actually make a difference.”

“Yeah, well, you could tell her yourself if you actually left this place once in a while,” Sam says, although there’s no real heat in his words because he’s as weary of this argument as Dean is. “But I know what her answer would be, because we’re _all_ gonna keep looking, no matter what you say.”

“You always were a stubborn son of a bitch, Sammy,” Dean sighs and smiles, fondness briefly breaking through the medication’s wall of apathy that keeps his emotions in check.

Sam smiles back, although this hurts more than when Dean is angrily reminding him of his failings.

“One day,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” Dean says, like they’re having a conversation about winning the lottery or taking the vacation of a lifetime. “One day.”

Sam leaves shortly after. He gets into the car and finds a radio station with football commentary. The outcome of the game or even which teams are playing is irrelevant – he’s just relieved to find something that prevents him from having to be alone with his thoughts.

OoOoO

_THEN_

Sam finds going back to school a bigger challenge that he thought. The studying is fine – all the years spent hunting have kept his research skills sharp – but he feels out of touch with his fellow students. Most are much younger, away from their parents for the first time and eager to make the most of their college experience. 

He hates that he’s only in his thirties and yet he feels old and out of place there – a ‘mature student’, which clearly translates as ‘old, weird fucker’ to some of his fellow classmates. On one particularly warm day he rolls his shirt sleeves up during a lecture, then realises that the guy sitting next to him is gaping at the collection of scars on his forearms. 

He and Dean have often laughed that outsiders would probably think they were cutters – years of slicing the flesh of their arms for various blood rituals have left their wrists and arms a mess of fine, perfectly straight scars – and he’s never been ashamed of those imperfections, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel self conscious at that moment.

He’s also the guy who answers questions – usually correctly - in class, turns in assignments without blaming hangovers and computer fuck-ups for their lateness and is occasionally collected by a guy in a car built several decades before any of them were born.

Yeah, not weird _at all_.

Despite Dean’s insistence that he go back to school, he worries about his brother while he’s there. Dean continues to work on the house, proudly talking through his handiwork when Sam returns home each day, but it means that he goes days and weeks with only minimal contact with the outside world. 

Dean assures him that he’s fine with that, but Sam knows that it’s the part of Dean that’s terrified of what the Mark might make him do that’s talking when he says that. Still, despite his reservations, their lives seem to be moving forward without a hint of trouble. They remain prepared for disaster though, like they know misfortune will never truly let them go no matter how unobtrusively they try to live their lives. 

He’s been back at school a mere matter of weeks when Sam returns from school one day to find Dean’s big plans for the sanding the living room floor have proceeded no further than getting the necessary tools together, where they still sit cluttering up the hallway eight hours later. Dean’s sitting at the kitchen table, tumbler of whiskey in his hand when Sam arrives home. He looks up and offers Sam a humourless smile.

“Hey, Sammy. How was school?”

“Fine.” Sam replies cautiously, slowly lowering his book bag to the floor. “You okay, Dean?”

“Awesome. Cas came by.”

Sam feels his heart rate soar. Although they’d never set any kind of ground rules for Castiel, the angel had understood that retiring and keeping Dean safe meant keeping away whilst he was still embroiled with Heaven’s politics.

He’d stayed true to his word when he said he’d leave the Winchesters alone and they hadn’t seen him since the day they’d announced their plans to quit hunting. To discover he’d been here unexpectedly spoke of trouble and nothing more.

“Because...?” he asks, almost afraid to know.

Dean laughs to himself. “Well, it wasn’t to help with the painting.”

Sam comes to sit opposite, already keenly aware of the world crashing down around them. _Four months_ , he thinks despairingly, _is that as good as it gets for us? Four measly months?_

“He just wanted to give us a heads up. You know Abaddon, that bitch queen from Hell that’s dead? Yeah, well, she ain’t as dead as we’d like. In fact,” Dean says, his gaze held by the tumbler in his hand as he swirls the liquid around, “She ain’t dead _at all_.”

“How does Cas know?” Sam asks, after a brief pause where his predominant thought is, _oh fuck._

“She took an ad out in The New York Times, how the fuck do I know?” Dean replies, frowning. “Gossip ain’t just for humans, I guess.”

“So what does that mean for us?”

Dean shrugs and smiles lopsidedly. “I guess she’s got good reason to be a little pissed with us, seeing as the last time we saw her I hacked off her head. I don’t reckon we’ll be back on her Christmas card list any time soon, do you?

“On the plus side,” Dean continues, “the chatter says she’s still after Crowley’s crown, so we might be pretty low on her bucket list.”

“So what then?”

“Cas says he’ll keep an eye on things and if she’s victorious in the douche-off between her and Crowley, he’ll come and warn us. Otherwise, I guess we just stay ready in case she decides to call in unannounced. Bitch probably won’t even bring us a house-warming gift.”

Sam doesn’t reply because it’s taking him some time to process this. Ten minutes ago he was thinking of getting started on one of his assignments and wondering if Dean had had any thoughts about what they could have for dinner tonight. Now... things have been turned on their head, yet again.

“Okay,” he says eventually. “We need to check all the wards again, keep armed and keep vigilant. Good job we brought some supplies, huh?”

Dean nods distantly. Sam can see there’s something his brother’s hesitant about saying, that despite his attempts at levity, Dean’s spooked.

“You okay?” he asks.

Dean swirls the last of his whiskey and downs it in one. His face is a mask, concealing the maelstrom of emotions beneath. Sam knows though – he’s familiar enough with the cracks in Dean’s armour to see everything he needs to see.

“You think it’ll be enough?” Dean asks, his voice strained. “If Abaddon comes after us, I mean.”

Then it hits Sam, so much so that he’s annoyed with himself that he didn’t see it sooner. Abaddon is a Knight of Hell – all the weapons they’ve packed won’t be enough to stop her, but the thought of bringing the First Blade back into play is what’s got Dean quietly freaking out.

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” he replies, falling back on the old cliché, in the hope that this particular bridge won’t come with its own ogre living beneath it.

OoOoO

_NOW_

Sam’s in the office by half past seven on Monday morning. He makes himself some coffee and sits down to read through some files, but his mind repeatedly wanders back to his brother. This happens whenever he has visits with Dean and is reminded of the brother he’s lost – when Dean isn’t comatose or angry and uncommunicative. Last night he’d researched the new anti-psychotics the doctor is trialling with Dean and he hadn’t liked what he’d read. The fact that Dean doesn’t really need them makes the increased risk of diabetes or heart problems even harder to accept.

When he realises that he’s re-reading the same paragraph again, he makes a snap decision. He dials Charlie’s number, ready with an apology for calling so early.

“Hey,” he says when she picks up. “Tell me again about that lead you’ve been chasing in Italy...”

They chat for about ten minutes, during which he takes down some notes. He’s got an appointment at eight so when Marcie arrives, he hands the secretary his credit card and a hastily scribbled list.

“More flights, Sam?” she asks, once she’s studied the information he’s given her. “You still haven’t told me what France was like.”

_Dusty, frustrating and ultimately useless_ , he thinks as he recalls his visit to the monastery just outside of Lille, but he smiles and shrugs. “It was okay.”

“You realise that you’ve described the last three places you’ve visited as ‘okay’.” Marcie rolls her eyes before she heads off down the corridor to her desk. “Culture’s wasted on you, Sam Winchester.”

“So you’ll book me the flights?” he calls after her.

“ _Wasted_ ,” she repeats, which is clearly a yes.

OoOoO

_THEN_

After the initial rush of anxiety upon learning of Abaddon’s not-demise, the lack of subsequent signs of attack means life inevitably returns to their new normal. Castiel comes again one Sunday while they’re replacing rotten floorboards, his expression never changing even with weapons pointed at his throat.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean growls as he sheathes his knife, Sam doing the same with a similarly irritated look on his face. “You wanna give us a heads up if you’re gonna just beam into the middle of our living room?”

“Would you have preferred that I materialised in a different room?” Castiel replies, missing the point entirely. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Never mind. So what’s up? If you’re here then something’s wrong.”

“On the contrary; I wanted to reassure you that there appears to be no threat to you at present.”

“At present?” Sam says, before Dean can reply. Castiel nods.

“We’re tracking some of Abaddon’s followers and there’s been nothing to indicate that they have any interest towards you both. Her attentions appear to be solely concentrated on taking Hell from Crowley.”

“Okaaay,” Dean says slowly. “So what’s the plan? Just sit back and let them Battle Royale it out?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies, not missing a beat at the movie reference. “We’ll deal with the victor when the time comes. I just wanted you to know that you don’t need to be involved.”

When neither of them responds, Castiel frowns.

“I thought you would have seemed happier.”

“Yeah, well, no offense, Cas, but this isn’t exactly our first rodeo,” Dean says, glancing at Sam. “But we appreciate the sentiment, so keep us informed if anything changes. Anyway, what's with the 'Beam Me Up, Scotty' act? I thought your grace was limited?"

"Admittedly it's not what it was. I just have to be mindful about how I use my powers."

Cas is gone in a flurry of wings. They study each other for a moment before Dean reaches down and grabs another plank of wood.

“Dean...” Sam goes to say. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you-”

“Sam,” Dean says, his tone indicating that the matter isn’t up for discussion. “This floor’s not gonna lay itself.”

Weeks pass and they start to think Cas might be right. Sam finds the assignments piling up and his thoughts become increasingly occupied by points of law rather than the possibility of their lives being in danger. Dean remains armed while he goes about his business, but even he concedes that it’s pointless to put their lives on hold worrying about something that may never be. November is surprisingly mild, so Dean starts some jobs outside, landscaping the back yard and removing the old stucco from the property’s facade.

Aside from Cas, the only visitors to the house are the guys from the local hardware store, delivering supplies that are too big for the Impala’s trunk to carry. With the house being Dean’s sole preoccupation, they’re coming by two, three times a week and he gets to know them by name. He’s tested them, of course – a ‘Christo’ here, a drink of holy water there. He’s even let them in when they offered to carry the supplies into the house for him so they’d unwittingly cross the salt and iron lines he’d laid down.

He’s digging at the side of the house when he hears the familiar rumble of the hardware store’s truck. He watches as it negotiates the potholes on the track up to the property before it pulls to a stop beside the Impala. Dennis, a balding guy in his mid fifties climbs out of the cab first, appreciatively eyeing up the car before he looks around for its owner. After a beat, Colin, Dennis’s nephew and possibly the most acne stricken teenager Dean has ever seen, climbs down from the other side.

“Hey guys,” he calls, ramming his shovel into the dirt and walking over to greet them.

“Hey, Dean,” Dennis replies, raising a hand in greeting. “You wanna tell us where you want all this stuff?”

His order is mostly timber so the three of them unload it down the side of the house, not far from where he was digging. It’s warm today so he offers them a drink when they’re done. As they stand out front, talk inevitably turns to the car, which Dennis has admired every time he’s stopped by. He enjoys restoring classic cars and he’s always asking questions about how Dean has maintained the old vehicle so beautifully. Dean never minds, because it’s not exactly like he can have these kinds of conversations with Sam, who doesn’t know his distributor from his cylinder head.

Sweating with the morning’s exertions he grabs the towel he’s brought out. He realises that Colin is studying him as he blots away the sweat from his face and neck.

“Cool tat,” the teenager remarks, nodding in his direction. “Does it mean anything?”

Dean realises he’s dragged the neck of his t-shirt low enough to reveal the inking. He smiles, mostly just to be polite, and shrugs.

“Long story,” he says, turning back towards the house to grab the bottle of water beside the trench he’s digging.

“It won’t save you, you know,” Colin says, his voice suddenly harder than it’s ever sounded before. Dean turns quickly, but Colin brings the shovel up and it connects with his temple, splitting skin and sending him crashing to the dirt. He doesn’t lose consciousness straight away and he wonders briefly what Dennis is making of his previously meek and mild nephew whacking their best customer, but Dennis is grinning and the family resemblance is suddenly more obvious than ever with their matching black eyes. 

OoOoO

Sam is part way through a lecture on employment law when he realises that his phone is vibrating in his pocket. When they first moved into the house, Dean would send him ridiculous messages in an attempt to make him laugh while he was in school. Despite this, he still checks his phone whenever it makes a noise, because there’s every chance that it’s _not_ Dean dicking around. He sneaks it from his pocket and almost drops it.

_Crowley_

He’s out of his seat in instant, startling the guy sitting next to him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, making for the end of the row. “Bathroom.”

He gives the professor an apologetic wave as he hurries from the lecture hall, barely pausing to stop the door from banging shut behind him. He answers the call.

“Moose. Thought you weren’t bothering.”

He breathes and tries to control his voice because he _hates_ the thought of letting the demon know that he’s rattled.

“What the hell do you want, Crowley?”

“Is that what passes for small talk these days? No wonder everyone sends texts.”

Despite his own heightened sense of anxiety, Sam realises something at that moment – Crowley’s lacklustre insults are poorly masking the fact that _he’s_ the one with the problem. The realisation adds irritation to his unease.

“Crowley. Get to the point or I’m gonna hang up in three, two-”

“All right, _all right._ You’re getting more and more like your brother every day. Speaking of your _pestiferous_ sibling, where is he?”

“Dean?”

“Yes, you know. Tall, brown hair, tends to get homicidal when provoked?”

“Why do you want to know?” Sam cuts in.

There’s a moment’s hesitation, confirming Sam’s suspicions that Crowley hasn’t called him up simply to act like a douchebag over the phone.

“There’s an issue... with the First Blade.”

Sam glances around, having practically forgotten that he’s having this conversation with the King of Hell in the middle of school. 

“An issue, what issue?”

“It’s gone.”

“ _Gone?_ ”

“Gone. And since your brother’s the person who gets the biggest hard-on when the Blade’s around, I wanted to find out if he’s the sticky-fingered individual responsible for lifting it from my possession.”

Sam frowns even though Crowley can’t see it. The idea is frankly ludicrous.

“Dean’s at home, and trust me, Crowley, it’s not him who’s taken it. Maybe you’ve forgotten, but we haven’t come after your sorry ass because we’re out.” He looks around quickly again. “Of hunting, the Men of Letters, _everything_. The First Blade is the last thing Dean wants to put himself within one hundred feet of... with the exception of you.”

“No need to be so hurtful, Moose,” Crowley says. “Well, if it’s not Dean, then consider this a heads up. The First Blade is out there somewhere and I, for one, am eager to have it back, okay?”

The line is dead before Sam can offer a suitable reply. He stares at the phone for a minute, trying to fit the pieces together. The obvious answer is it’s something to do with Abaddon, but although she’s a Knight of Hell, she doesn’t have the Mark of Cain, therefore the blade is just a piece of bone to her. Cain has disappeared off the face of the Earth, therefore the blade is useless... without Dean.

He’s hit speed dial before he’s even finished acknowledging the stone that has dropped into the pit of his stomach. It rings and rings.

“Come on, Dean. Pick up, pick up,” he mutters closing his eyes, and trying to convince himself that Dean’s just not heard his phone because he’s got a power tool running or something. He ends the call when it goes through to Dean’s voicemail and re-dials immediately. Still nothing.

He’s already moving to the exit, his belongings abandoned in the lecture hall, as he dials Castiel’s number. Under other circumstances he’d take a moment to contemplate the enormity – or the sheer fucked-upness – of getting off of the phone to the King of Hell and immediately calling an angel, but here and now, with everything that’s at stake, his only thought is of his brother.

“Cas!” he barks when the call is finally answered. He’s in the parking lot now and horrified by the thought that the fastest way for him to get home is to hotwire a car. “You need to get to our house now.”

He manages a brief explanation before he ends the call and turns his attention to finding a suitable car. He can’t do it as fast as Dean, but it’s still only a matter of minutes before he’s driving away from school, agonisingly slowly at first to avoid attracting attention. Once he’s made a couple of turns, he puts his foot down and races for home.

Castiel calls before he reaches the house, with the news he was dreading. Dean’s not there. The car is still standing in the driveway and Dean’s belongings – things he’d never leave the house without – are lying untouched on the kitchen worktop. 

When Sam arrives home they search the house. Finding nothing, they turn their attentions to outside, where Sam finds a shovel with something that could be blood on it, near the trench that Dean had started digging that morning.

“Cas,” he yells. 

The angel is at his side in an instant. He holds out the shovel.

“It’s Dean’s,” Castiel confirms, studying the dried, darkened patch on the shovel’s blade.

They look around for other clues, but come up blank. The slight breeze will have carried away any trace of sulphur, but demons seem the most obvious culprits. Sam tries to breathe in the hope that it will steady his racing heart, because they need to be thinking clearly about their next steps. If Abaddon’s followers have the First Blade and Dean, then there’s no telling what danger they all could be in. 

OoOoO

He comes to gradually, keeping completely still so as not to advertise his consciousness. There are male voices, but they don’t belong to anyone he recognises, which leaves him firmly stuck at square one in trying to work out what the fuck’s going on. One thing he _can_ be certain of is that they’re in a vehicle and they’re moving, the sounds and movements indicating they’re probably on the freeway.

He shifts infinitesimally. From what he can work out, he’s lying face-first, wedged on the floor behind the front seats of whatever car he’s in. He’s bound wrist and ankle and, judging by the stiffness, he’s been in this position for a while. His head is throbbing – a combination of being hit hard and the cut that was inflicted when the blow landed. It’s obviously bled a lot as when he goes to blink, the movement pulls on his skin, crusted with what he assumes must be blood.

The voices start up again and he realises that they’re arguing. Despite the almighty headache pounding his skull, he forces himself to tune into what they’re saying.

“How far now?”

“Five minutes. Now how about you stop asking, okay?”

“She’s gonna be seriously pissed, you know that? She said no stops.”

“Yeah? Trust me, she’d be more pissed if he died because that stupid fucker hit him in the head with a shovel. We’re making the stop.”

Judging by the change in road surface, they’ve pulled off of the freeway. They make a few turns and it becomes apparent that they’re on a dirt road, which doesn’t bode well since he can’t recall a single good thing that’s ever happened to him on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. 

The car comes to a stop and for a few minutes nothing happens. Then he hears the approach of another vehicle and the driver gets out. A brief muffled conversation takes place outside the car before one of the rear doors is opened and a pair of hands grasps his bound arms.

He’s unceremoniously dumped into the dirt in front of a shapely pair of legs. It’s pointless to pretend he’s still unconscious, so he lifts his head to see the owner of the legs – she’s a smartly dressed woman in her forties and she’s wearing a lab coat and carrying a black leather doctor’s bag. She looks irritated. She also has black eyes.

“You wanna get him up?” she says to his companions.

The hands are back, dragging him up so that he’s sitting on his ass. For a moment, he thinks he’s going to fall, but his sense of balance decides to show up at the last minute to prevent him from face-planting back into the dirt.

The lady doctor rolls her now-normal eyes, and sets her bag on the ground beside him. She retrieves a small flashlight and proceeds to shine it in his eyes.

“Headache?” she snaps.

“Bitch,” he replies, meeting her gaze defiantly, “...of one.”

She ignores the remark. “Any double vision? Vomiting?”

When he doesn’t respond, one of the douchebags that brought him here steps forward and kicks him hard in his side. Thoughtfully, the guy grabs his hair as he does it, preventing him from toppling over with the force.

“Answer her, dickwad.”

“No,” he gasps, hindered by the lack of air in his lungs. “No double vision.”

“Good.” She returns to her bag and retrieves some sterile swabs. “Hold still.”

He bites back on a comment about her bedside manner as she cleans up his head wound, because she isn’t exactly being gentle. Behind him, his two captors are hovering, presumably in case he decides to try something.

“No anaesthetic?” he asks, with a humourless grin as she preps a needle and some suture. She shoots him a look. “Guess not then.”

Mercifully, it doesn’t take her long. Once she’s done she packs her stuff away and addresses the two men.

“He should be fine. Just watch out for him vomiting and don’t let him sleep.” She then directs her attention to the guy who kicked him. “And try to get him there in one piece. He’s supposed to be unhurt, you hear?”

Before he can process this, he’s hauled roughly to his feet and dragged back to the car. He doesn’t bother asking if they will allow him to sit up for the remainder of the ride to wherever they’re going because it’s clear they haven’t exactly got his best interests at heart.

“Wait,” one of them says before the other can return him to the vehicle. He turns to see the guy approaching with a mauve patterned scarf that he’s rolling up, having relinquished it from the demon doctor lady.

“Oh, come on,” he growls as the guy secures it around his eyes. “Purple’s not exactly my colour.”

“Shut up,” comes the reply before he’s shoved roughly back into the car.

OoOoO

They drive for what feels like another few hours. At first he’s considering complaining about the lack of foods and liquids, but after a while he’s glad that he’s not got a full bladder to contend with as well. The cable ties they’ve used to bind him are cutting into his wrists, but he has to keep flexing his arms to ward off cramps. His keepers/chauffeurs barely speak to each other, which doesn’t help make the journey any more interesting. 

The least painful option would be just to go to sleep – he’s not getting out of this situation any time soon so there’s no point trying to stay awake – but they’ve clearly taken the bitch-doctor’s words to heart and every time he can feel himself dropping off, he’s dug painfully in the side or one of them pours some water on his face. 

Eventually the car rumbles to a halt and once the engine’s shut off, he’s hauled from the vehicle. This time they’re expecting him to stand and he feels the cable ties at his ankles being cut before he’s propelled forwards, even though they’ve not taken the blindfold off.

He’s guided roughly across what feels like grass. He stumbles a couple of times because his legs are still half asleep, but the hands keep him from falling completely.

“Steps,” the voice barks at him, mere moments before his feet hit more solid ground. 

His boot catches the rise, but he clears it at the last second so he doesn’t go face-first up the unseen stairs. Ahead of him a door opens and he’s shoved across the threshold, hard. This time they let him fall and he manages to twist at the last moment so that he lands on his shoulder rather than smash all his teeth in. The air whooshes from his lungs and someone behind him laughs. He makes a mental note to kill the bastard at the first available opportunity.

The blindfold is pulled from his eyes and he blinks to clear his vision. From the snatches of conversation, he’s expecting to see Abaddon glaring down at him, but it’s another stranger – a guy with long straggly hair and a hooked nose.

“You look disappointed, Dean,” he smirks.

“Yeah well,” he replies, heaving himself into a sitting position, “You can’t blame me – I was expecting someone better looking.”

“That’s just typical of you Winchesters – you’ve got an inflated sense of your own self-importance. You think Abaddon would be here, just because it’s you?”

He grins. “That bitch has had the hots for me, since _forever_. Uh uh –” he adds quickly, when the demon goes to strike him – “unhurt, remember? Don’t wanna piss off the boss by damaging the goods. So yeah, maybe I _am_ the prize pig, after all.”

The straggly-haired guy looks past him, to the demon who brought him in. 

“Get him out of here, will you?” he snaps. “The room’s ready.”

“Yeah? It better have a sea view or I want my money back.”

Once again, he’s dragged to his feet, but this time he’s shoved through the house, into the kitchen. There’s a door that can only lead to a cellar and the other guy that brought him here opens it, to reveal a dimly-lit staircase. 

“This better not be a kinky sex dungeon,” he mutters as he has little choice but to descend. At the bottom there’s a small, windowless room, empty except for a mattress on the bare concrete floor. The makeshift bed is pushed into the corner, and on it rests a short length of chain that’s bolted securely to the wall at one end. He rolls his eyes.

“So it _is_ a kinky sex dungeon then.”

“Just sit the fuck down.”

He stares at the demon, doing a rapid assessment of whether he could get himself out of this situation before he’s chained to the wall and things get infinitely more difficult. Seeing his hesitation, the guy pulls a knife and brings it uncomfortably close to his throat. 

“Well since you asked so nicely,” he replies. 

The knife is suddenly gone as he’s pushed to the floor. The mattress lessens the impact this time, but it still hurts without his hands to break the fall. His captor is on him straight away, pushing up one leg of his jeans so that the cuff can be fastened as tightly as possible. When he glances down, he notices that the iron has symbols etched into it – like a variation of their devil’s trap handcuffs.

Once the guy’s satisfied that he’s secured he stands up and goes to leave.

“Dude, what about the hands?” he asks, sick of the plastic cable ties that now feel as if they’re embedded into his wrists.

The demon gives a snort of amusement and carries on up the stairs.

“Asshole,” he shouts. “I’m gonna leave you the worst review _ever_ on Trip Advisor.”

The door at the top of the stairs bangs shut, leaving him alone in the poorly-lit cellar with no obvious means of escape. Alone, he can drop the act and he lets his pounding head fall back to rest against the wall. Now he has confirmation that Abaddon is behind his abduction, he’s left to wonder what exactly she wants with him. If she knew where their house was, why didn’t she just turn up and get her revenge on him there – on _both_ of them, in fact?

Then there’s the wanting him ‘unhurt’. Revenge still seems her most likely motive, but why is she so hell-bent on being the one to inflict all the damage? Either way, the bitch is going to put in an appearance soon. He thinks of Sam and wonders if his brother realises that he’s gone yet. It’s likely, with the number of hours that have passed.

He tries to study the cuff around his ankle, but it’s difficult as his jeans are now covering it and he doesn’t have his hands free to examine it properly. He moves his leg so that the chain pulls taut. On first inspection, there’s nothing about any of the links, nor where it is anchored to the wall that would give him hope that he could escape it. He sighs and closes his eyes. Unless any other opportunity presents itself, Sam and Cas are his best hope, so all he can do is sit and wait.

In his mind, he’s expecting the wait to be much shorter than it actually is. In reality, it’s almost a week. He’s presented with a pot to piss in and fed with reasonably regularity, but in all that time he rarely sees anyone, and it’s always the guy with the hooked nose. Abaddon doesn’t show, which is probably the biggest surprise of all. 

After he’s been there approximately twenty-four hours, the guy finally comes and frees his hands, but being able to examine the shackle around his ankle more thoroughly yields nothing of use. He suspects there’s some kind of ward on it, because now it’s fastened, there’s no obvious join or hinge that he could utilise as a weak point to free himself.

When he complains about the lack of stimulation they bring him some magazines – he’s surprised that his gripe has been registered, until he realises that they’ve brought him nothing but women’s lifestyle publications. He likes to think that he’s had the last laugh though, since he’s read every last one and learned some useful facts about breast examination and an interesting article on what _not_ to wear for a job interview. 

Every time the door opens, he allows himself to hope that it might be Sam or Castiel – hell, he’d even take _Crowley_ at this point. Even though he’s wanting _something_ more interesting to happen, he’s not exactly thrilled when into the gloomy basement walks Abaddon. She’s wearing bright red stilettos that click on the wooden stairs as she descends, giving a whole new meaning to the term ‘killer heels’. 

She looks genuinely pleased to see him, which frankly given their history, is downright creepy, but he figures that she’s here to end him, so her pleasure is perhaps understandable.

“Dean,” she says, devouring him with her eyes. “So glad you could come.” 

“Well, when you make me an offer I can’t refuse...” he replies, holding up the chain and giving it an experimental yank. “Although your staff are a little lacking in customer service.”

Her eyes flick to the stitches across his forehead and she smiles. “If it’s any consolation, they’re all dead.”

“That’s a bit drastic. I thought maybe you could give them a written warning or something?”

“ _Loose lips sink ships_ and all that,” she says with a shrug, her expression nonchalant. 

“Awesome. So you wanna tell me why I’m here? Your house is great, by the way. Did you specifically tell the real estate agent that you were looking for somewhere with a dungeon or was it just a happy coincidence?”

Her smile broadens. “I hope you’ve not found your lodgings too disagreeable?”

“Not at all. The only thing that made me realise it wasn’t the Hilton was the lack of a mint on my pillow. Oh, and the lack of a pillow.”

Abaddon laughs. 

“Oh, Dean, I’d forgotten how much fun you were.” She steps forward and grasps his face, turning it this way and that as if she’s considering a valuable artefact. 

“No matter, because we’re gonna have lots of fun together, make up for lost time, what do you think?”

He makes a face as if he’s thinking about it, despite the fact that her nails are digging into his cheeks and her proximity makes him want to vomit.

“Would you believe me if I said I’d given up my bad boy ways and am all about clean living these days? In fact, I am _virtually_ no fun at all anymore.”

“Now, now,” she scolds, stroking his cheek fondly. “We can soon remedy that.”

He clenches his jaw and swallows, determined not to let her think that she’s getting to him. In all honesty, he expected to be dead at this point, but the way she’s talking it doesn’t sound like that’s her intention – not yet anyway.

“How’d you get back anyway?” he says through gritted teeth.

She flashes her teeth at him in a shark-like grin. “Ah, now that would be courtesy of the Big Man downstairs.”

“Crowley? I thought you’d set your sights on stealing his crown?” 

If anything, this makes her smile harder. Thankfully, she lets him go and steps back.

“Ah, the good old rumour mill... It wasn’t Crowley, but you’re right, though. That little weasel’s been an ineffective ruler for far too long now and I _would_ have taken his crown before if it hadn’t been for you goddamned Winchesters.” 

“Careful – you’re starting to sound like a Scooby Doo villain.”

She ignores him completely. “Unfortunately, in the time that I was... away... Crowley has re-established his foothold, and getting demons to simply defect is just too laborious. This time, I’m going to take his dictatorship by force – _extreme_ force. And that’s where you come in.”

“You’re kidding, right?” he says, shaking his head. “Crowley’s a douche, and probably a terrible boss, but I’m not gonna kill him, _especially_ for you.”

“Oh, _Dean_ ,” she replies, cocking her head to one side, a fake sad smile dancing across her lips. “You _are_ going to do that for me... especially when I’ve been so good as to get the First Blade for you.”

For the first time since Abaddon entered his prison, he forgets to maintain his ‘ _I don’t give a shit about any of this_ ’ facade. He’d reconciled himself with the fact that Abaddon was going to get her revenge on him – but this, _this_ , he’d never even considered.

“You’re lying,” he says, hoping he’s only imagining the fear in his voice.

He hasn’t though, because Abaddon has evidently heard it too and is thrilled by his reaction. Her obvious pleasure informs him that she’s telling the truth.

“It took serious work to get it – I hope you appreciate the effort we went to, just for you, Dean.”

“Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes because it’s all clear to him now. Abaddon’s going to kill him so the Mark will resurrect him as a demon again, so he can once again leave his morals on his deathbed. Now he realises why she was in no rush to get to him – his worth as a piece on the board only soared once she had the First Blade.

“Even if you make me a demon, I won’t help you, because it’s you and you’re a crazy fucking bitch.”

Abaddon looks taken aback for a moment, then utterly delighted.

“ _That’s_ what you think my plan is? Oh, Dean, you’re just adorable.” She’s smiling, but her eyes narrow. “You killed me, Dean – hacked this beautiful body to _pieces_. It took a lot of work to put it back together. You think I should just let that go? You’re right, in that I want Crowley gone and need you to do it, but I need you to suffer too, Dean, so here’s what’s going to happen.

“You’re going to take the Blade and you’re going to kill again and again and eventually you’re going to succumb to the Mark until you’re _begging_ to kill Crowley. Then it’s going to get really good, because Sam and that angel you hang out with will be next, and you’re just not going to be able to stop yourself. After that... well, who knows? I’m all for a little population control, innocent humans or otherwise.”

She pauses to savour his horror. She studies him for a moment and he’s genuinely chilled by her smile.

“Remember, I knew Cain so I know how addictive the bloodlust is. I know how much he hated it, at first; the death, the destruction. It ate away at his humanity – but you know that, don’t you? You already knew how it was chipping away at your soul by the time you killed me. And it scares you, Dean, I can see that, and that’s exactly why I’m _not_ going to turn you into a demon, because I want you to hate and regret every _second_ of what you’re doing.”

She stops speaking, but he has nothing to say – no clever responses, no threats or promises that she’ll never get away with it. This is the nightmare that he’s tried desperately to avoid, even going as far as leaving the only home he’d ever known, but it figures that his luck would run out sooner or later.

“Well, good talk, Dean,” Abaddon says, clapping her hands together before she heads for the stairs. “I’ll see you soon.”

He watches her go and when he’s alone his head drops into his hands. He’ll try to fight the Mark’s pull – he _has_ to – but he’s also aware of what it will make him into when he can’t resist it any longer.

OoOoO

He doesn't see Abaddon again for some time. Instead, he eats and sleeps and worries about what will be. He wants to believe that Abaddon is full of shit, but his own experiences tell him that she’s right on the money. For the last twenty-four hours he’s become aware of a gnawing in his stomach that grows stronger with every passing minute. He’s still not identified the reason, when Abaddon returns with her hooked-nosed companion who is carrying a canvas-wrapped parcel. The gnawing intensifies and he instantly knows why.

She’s smiling broadly, eager to see what will happen next. She nods at the guy who unwraps the canvas. He at least has the decency to look a little nervous. 

It’s an ugly piece of crap, but it sends his heart rate soaring. He wants to reach out for it, curl his fingers around the handle, _feel_ how it moulds into his hand and sets his synapses firing at the thought of what is to come. Instead he ducks his head and concentrates on breathing, a steady in and out as his hands curl into fists, wishing he was anywhere but here. 

He’s waiting for a smart remark, but none comes. Instead the blade is placed on the floor within his reach. Abaddon and her minion go to leave.

“Better get ready, Dean,” she calls over her shoulder as she climbs the stairs.

He watches them go because he’s desperately trying not to look at the First Blade, but he can feel his gaze being drawn to it. Then there’s an almighty noise from above and the sound of the door being opened once more. It admits a hulking great shape that crashes down the stairs and lands in a heap at the bottom with an indignant sounding roar.

It’s a motherfucking _wendigo_.

The creature lies stunned for a moment, before it stands and shakes itself off. Then it turns and sees him. He doubts the noise it makes is the wendigo version of ‘hello’.

“Shit,” he mutters, standing cautiously. His body aches – weeks of remaining chained haven’t exactly kept him active and he suddenly finds himself wishing he’d done more to prevent his body from seizing up. The wendigo appears to be studying him, but it’s a foregone conclusion how this will ultimately play out. Wendigos eat people and last time he looked, he was definitely still people.

Without warning, the monster charges him. Instinctively, he snatches up the First Blade and sinks it into the wendigo’s gut. It shrieks in pain, but swipes at him with its claws, catching him across the shoulder and slicing his skin clean open. The shock of pain and his well-honed sense of self-preservation fuel the Mark’s power and it’s almost with an intense rush of pleasure that he stabs the creature again and again until it finally stops moving. When it’s undoubtedly dead, his legs give way and he collapses, spent, onto the now blood-soaked mattress, surrounded by what’s left of the wendigo.

The ecstasy dissipates almost as quickly as it arrived and he feels utterly drained. He studies the First Blade, still gripped between his bloody fingers and hates it, so he tosses it across the room in disgust. The thought of keeping it to possibly aid him in getting out of here doesn’t even occur to him. He just wants it _gone_.

A few more minutes elapse before the door opens again and he hears the click of Abaddon’s heels on the steps. She’s followed by the other demon who looks relieved that Blade is not currently being held by its psychotic owner. Abaddon makes a face, mock-disgust at the mess, then she smiles at him benevolently – a proud parent thrilled by its offspring’s achievement.

“You took a risk,” he mutters before she can say anything. “Fire kills wendigos, not old donkey bones.”

He ignores the twitch of something within him that balks at the insult to the weapon.

“But the Blade plus the Mark trumps anything, surely you knew that?” she says, like he’s a slow-witted child.

“Still, a bit of warning would have been nice. Oh yeah, and not being chained up maybe?”

She waves her hand dismissively.

“I could have left you with your hands tied behind your back and you’d still have found a way to kill it.” She stares at him hungrily, a wicked grin on her face. 

“So how did it feel to have it back in your hand? Cain used to say the thrill was better than sex, and he’s had sex with me, so he’s a man who _knows_ about thrills.”

He makes a face so she rolls her eyes in response.

“Oh, don’t be such a prude, Dean. Demons have got insatiable appetites. But you know that, right? From all accounts you were a _very_ busy boy while you were playing for the other team.”

“Gimme a fuckin’ break,” he growls, done with this conversation. The reappearance of the First Blade has sent him into a tailspin and although he’s not one for introspection, he needs time to sort out what the fuck’s just happened to him.

“Watch your mouth,” Hook Nose growls back.

“It’s okay,” Abaddon says with bright smile. “It’s time for Dean to get cleaned up anyway.”

Before he can ask what she means, she mutters a quick incantation and flicks her hand towards him. Instantly there’s a strong burning sensation spreading up through his body. He realises it’s coming from the cuff around his ankle and he yanks up the leg of his jeans as the pain borders on unbearable. The symbols etched on the metal are glowing.

“What the fuck...?” he says, his voice strangled. 

Then suddenly, the heat is gone, like he’s been drenched with a bucket of ice-cold water. He gasps in response, and then he’s gone altogether, lost to blessed blackness.

OoOoO

He’s not sure how long he’s out for. Nothing’s changed in that he’s still in the windowless room lying chained by the ankle on a mattress, but it’s clear that plenty has been happening whilst he was unconscious. For one, the wendigo carcass is gone and the concrete floor has been scrubbed clean. The mattress he’s lying on is new and therefore thankfully blood-free. Most disconcertingly of all, _he’s_ clean too.

He’s wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a faded grey t-shirt with a black over-shirt. They’re so ‘him’ that they could be his clothes and he could have dressed himself, but they’re not and he hasn’t. With a sinking feeling, he pulls down the waist of the jeans. Yup, clean underwear too.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” he mutters to the empty room.

The upside to this gross invasion of his personal space, he tells himself, is that he’s finally clean. He runs a hand across his hair and finds that that’s been washed too. When he thinks about the wendigo again he remembers that he didn’t get away scot free and he pulls the neck of the t-shirt to see a patch of gauze disappearing over his shoulder. A cursory feel of the area tells him the wound is stitched beneath the dressing. Thankfully, it doesn’t feel too tender.

He closes his eyes for a moment and tries to think about what it all means. In his mind’s eye he sees the First Blade and the lurching sensation in his stomach returns. He tries not think about how good it felt to hold it again and he _definitely_ doesn’t want to think about how good it felt to sink it into the wendigo’s flesh, over and over again until the creature was dead.

Next to the mattress, he realises that there’s a tray of food, presumably left by the person who got up close and personal with his unconscious body. He reaches over and pulls it toward him, suddenly aware that he’s pretty damn hungry. Although he doesn’t want to give props to any scumbag demon, the meal is good and he tries to savour it, along with the bottle of beer that’s also been left for him. He can’t help but feel like he’s being rewarded.

Once he’s eaten, he’s alone with his thoughts once more. He thinks of Sam and wonders what his brother’s doing right now. It’s been weeks since he was taken, so Sam will probably be frantic by now. Or not. He tries not to think about Sam not looking for him while he was in Purgatory, because he needs to believe that someone will get him out of this situation if he’s not able to do it for himself.

Then he consoles himself with remembering how far Sam went for him when he’d disappeared to howl at the moon with Crowley. Sam had crossed lines he had previously held sacrosanct and didn’t stop until Dean was back. He also recalls Sam saying that he wouldn’t let anything happen to him, when Cas had stopped by to update them about Abaddon’s plans. Sam had been adamant, even though he’d abruptly cut off any subsequent conversation on the matter.

The worrying thing is that Abaddon seems to have planned for the long game. She’s undoubtedly telling the truth about killing the demons who helped abduct him and since he’s been here, he’s only ever seen Queen Bitch herself or Hook Nose. This indicates that she’s learning from previous mistakes and keeping her trusted inner circle incredibly small. 

In the past when someone was up to something and they’d needed to see the bigger picture, they’d just find a demon and be able to torture some information out of them. Even if it turned out to be just gossip or hearsay, there was usually a _kernel_ of truth that would lead them to cold, hard facts somewhere along the line. 

Sam could be out there now, interrogating demon after demon to no avail, which is a highly likely since he’s still sitting here weeks after he was first taken. If Abaddon’s kept her plans on the down low, then what chance has Sam or Cas got of finding him?

OoOoO

Days pass. He’s not under any illusion that the thing with the wendigo was a one-off, so he tries to move around a little more to stop his body feeling like it should belong to a much older man. It’s tricky though – the chain around his ankle isn’t very long so it’s not like he can jog up and down to keep fit. 

The skin on his shoulder heals, the stitches itching as the flesh repairs itself beneath them. He’s beginning to think he needs to ask for more magazines to keep his mind from straying when Abaddon and Hook Nose return, the latter carrying the item that he _feels_ long before he actually sees it.

This time after they leave, the creature that descends the stairs looks human, although he very much doubts that it is. He receives confirmation of his suspicions when the thing reveals rows of small needle-like teeth. A fucking vamp. The blood-sucker is a young man who looks to be in his early twenties, so he’s probably only a few million years old in vampire years. He grins with delight, because it’s rare to find a meal ready-served, but here’s an actual chained up human, waiting to be exsanguinated. 

“Dude...” Dean says wearily, the First Blade is within reach, but not yet in his hand. If he can avoid having to touch it then he will, even though every fibre in his being wants nothing more than to claim it.

“You’ve gotta listen to me. You _seriously_ don’t wanna do this and there’s a chance we can both get out of here if we work together.”

The vamp laughs and shakes his head. He clearly thinks he’s been around long enough to hear every desperate attempt to avoid becoming lunch. He starts to move towards the shackled man.

“You must be crazy. Why the hell would I want to work with you?”

“Oh, man,” he mutters, bending down to snatch up the blade. “Don’t say I didn’t try.”

The vamp advances, but he’s not rushing because apparently there’s no contest. His expression as the blade takes off his head is one of pure surprise. 

“You stupid asshole,” he says to the now decapitated vamp. He’s trying to ignore the heady sensations triggered by the action of killing, like an orgasm he’s barely keeping a lid on. He wants to put the First Blade down, but his fingers refuse to uncurl. 

It takes him a moment to notice that Abaddon has entered the cellar. She’s got that pleased fucking expression on her face and he hates that he’s basically playing straight into her hands, but he’s powerless to stop, such is the lure of the First Blade. He tells himself he isn’t letting go of blade because he might have an opportunity to use it on her.

“Very good,” she says, coming over and righting the severed head with her foot. She studies it for a moment like it’s extremely amusing to her. “Hardly a challenge though. I think we need to find you some worthier adversaries.”

“Yeah? You wanna go?” he replies, through gritted teeth. The blade feels hot in his grasp as the blood pounds in his ears. _Come on, you bitch. Just step a little closer._

“Dean,” she scolds. “I’m not sure how stupid you think I am.”

She comes to stand, frustratingly close, and makes a mock-sultry face at him. “I know you’re _dying_ to stick it in me, but you’ll have to wait. You’ve got work to do – now sleep.”

Like last time, she mutters the incantation under her breath. The pain is instant and he drops the blade. Hook Nose is on it in an instant, kicking it out of reach before he scoops it up and re-wraps it in the canvas.

Abaddon smiles as she watches his suffering, before she makes a face like something’s just occurred to her.

“Oh, by the way,” she beams. “I forgot to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

His mind barely registers the amount of time he’s been here before he’s rendered unconscious once again.

OoOoO

The vamp didn’t do him any damage, so it’s only a week or so before he’s tested once again. He’s got entirely mixed feelings on the matter. Part of him is glad for the escape from the tedium of this existence, even if just for a few minutes. Another part of him dreads the door opening. Then there’s the part of him that he’s desperately trying to ignore: the part that rejoices every time that the First Blade is placed back in his hand – a part that is growing in volume and strength every time that it happens.

He’s sleeping the next time he’s challenged – it’s a werewolf, so he figures it must be full moon, even though his windowless prison gives him no opportunity to distinguish night from day. It’s a big fucker too and yet he takes it out, half-asleep, with the minimum of fuss. He wonders, briefly, what would happen if it looked as if his challenger was getting the better of him. So far, nothing’s even come _close_.

Then comes the rawhead. It brings back memories of ending up on the wrong end of a taser, which feels like a lifetime ago. The nostalgia is brief, however; he’s too busy thinking about how soon he can have the blade back and where is the blade right now and is it being looked after, and why won’t they bring it to him _now_?

What really scares him is that he can’t remember the last time he thought about Sam and Cas and when they’re going to show up to rescue him. He tries to tell himself that he’s just losing hope because of the time that’s passing, but really he knows it’s the Blade making him not care.

OoOoO

The creatures start to come thick and fast when it’s clear that he can handle them without a rest in between. On a couple of occasions, he’s even allowed to keep hold of the First Blade. It never even occurs to him to use it to try and escape.

After he’s done butchering a chupacabra, Abaddon appears again. They don’t have much in the way of conversation now – it’s as if she can sense that he’s too pre-occupied these days for their usual witty repartee. Like always, she uses the cuff to incapacitate him so the First Blade can be removed from his possession, but this time she’s still there when he regains consciousness. She’s looking at him with a strange half-smile.

“What?” he growls, hating the scrutiny while he nurses the mother of all hangovers.

“Tell me, Dean. In all your precious Men of Letters archives, did you ever read about the legend of ‘The One Who Destroys Everything?’”

_Fuck_ , he wishes she’d stop talking. “No. I was waiting for the movie. Is it any good?”

“You know what?” she replies, changing direction entirely. “I think you’re ready.” 

Her attention turns to the weapon in her hand. He clenches his jaw because _she’s touching the fucking blade and it’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine-_

“But first we just need to test something.” 

He’s stopped listening by this point, but her words come back to haunt him several days later when, aside from meals, he’s been left well and truly alone. Since the chupacabra remains were removed from his prison, not a single creature has been sent down those stairs to meet their bloody end. At first it’s a pleasant change, just to eat and sleep and not have to suffer the after effects of wielding the Blade.

Then he realises that his appetite is not what it was. Gradually, meal by meal, he leaves more and more of it on the plate; there’s nothing wrong with it, but he’s just not hungry. He’s contemplating this when he starts to cough up blood.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. It comes away stained red.

It’s starting. 

OoOoO

Still no one comes. He’s unable to get a handle on how much time is passing, but every minute seems agonisingly slow. The pain is getting worse, as is the amount of blood he’s coughing up. When he hears the door opening, he experiences a spark of hope that he might be getting something to kill, because he knows it’ll ease his suffering, even just for a moment. Abaddon appears and he groans.

“Come to enjoy my misery?” he asks without bothering to look up. He doesn’t need to see her face to know that she’s smiling.

“You know I can make it all stop,” she says. “All you have to do is ask.”

“Fuck you.”

“Okay, then.” When she doesn’t respond, he risks a glance upwards. As he suspected, she looks faintly amused.

“Well, see you, Dean.”

He tells himself that he showed her, that he should be proud of himself for holding out, but it doesn’t feel like any kind of victory. It feels like _dying_.

OoOoO

More time passes. The only way to measure it is by the untouched meals that are mounting up beside him. Earlier on in this nightmare he’d have confidently predicted that the pain couldn’t get any worse – not without him passing out, at any rate. Now he knows none of that is true.

It feels like his internal organs are liquefying. He lies on the mattress, arms hugging his body in a fruitless attempt to control the agony, and wishes death on himself. He barely notices Abaddon’s arrival until she’s standing right in front of him.

“You were calling for me?” she asks when he finally looks up.

He frowns. Was he? 

“Of course, _begging_ might be a more accurate description of what you were doing, but let’s not split hairs.”

She kneels down in front of him and gently strokes his hair. The action is so tender and the pain is so relentless that it’s hard for him not to try and seek comfort in the gesture. He coughs once, and a large globule of blood plops onto the floor beside him. The pain intensifies and he curls in tighter on himself, but it’s no good.

“What was that, Dean?” she asks. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”

Again he didn’t realise he’d even spoken. This time his voice, strained and at breaking point, reaches his ears.

“Make. It. _Stop_.”

OoOoO

He wonders if he’s finally passed out because he doesn’t remember Abaddon leaving. Next thing he knows, she’s coming back down the stairs, this time with company. It’s not Hook Nose however, which for the first time since he was brought here, would be a welcome alternative to the person standing next to her. He groans because he can see where this is heading, but the noise is drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears.

“What’s the matter, Dean?” Abaddon says innocently. “You asked me to make it stop, so I’m making it stop.”

She crouches down and puts her arm around the shoulders of the girl, who looks to be about nine or ten years old. She’s rubbing her eyes sleepily, like someone just woke her to bring her here and her blond hair falls about her face in gentle curls. Abaddon’s smile widens as she reaches into her jacket and pulls out the canvas-wrapped knife.

“Come on, Dean. Don’t tell me you’re not a _little_ bit excited?”

“No, no, no, no,” he repeats, but the promise of a kill and the pain being not only gone, but replaced by actual _pleasure_ is too much.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Abaddon reassures him. “She’s a vamp, or maybe a changeling; I forget which. You can kill her without violating your precious moral code.”

When he doesn’t move, her impatience gets the better of her and she unwraps the First Blade and grabs his hand, forcing the weapon between his fingers. He squeezes his eyes shut because there are fireworks going off in his brain and the pain in his gut is reaching a crescendo that needs to end soon before it ends him. 

He doesn’t realise that he’s even moved until the child screams. He comes back to himself and finds that he’s towering over her and the blade is now embedded so deep that it’s probably sticking out of her back. He collapses back onto the mattress as the child drops to the floor in front of him, her dead, staring eyes fixed upon him.

“Or then again,” Abaddon says, with an insouciant shrug. “She could have just been a regular kid.”

And that’s it. It’s like a switch flicks over in his brain and suddenly his mind has fled completely. Abaddon glances at the dead changeling, its face now starting to revert to its true monstrous visage, and back at Dean who has registered none of this despite the fact that his eyes are wide open.

Abaddon smiles, utterly satisfied with what’s just happened. 

“Remember me telling you about ‘The One Who Destroys Everything’, Dean? You should have read up about it, because you’d have known that it’s _you_.” She waves a hand in front of his face and laughs when he doesn’t even blink.

“I guess you’re ready to fulfil your destiny,” she says. “Welcome to Team Abaddon, Dean Winchester.”

**End of Part One**


	2. Part 2

_THEN_

Cas pulls the knife free in one swift movement, ending the demon and it’s unfortunate meatsuit. He turns to look at Sam, who looks as if he needs to punch something.

“This is insane, Cas; I mean, how many demons is that? Why do none of them know anything?”

Castiel opens his mouth, but he’s at a loss about what to say. Although his reactions are much more muted, he shares Sam’s frustrations that none of the demons they’ve managed to capture have any idea about what’s happened to Dean or where he is at this moment.

“I’m calling Crowley,” Sam says, his tone indicating that the matter isn’t up for discussion. 

They’ve tried to avoid letting Crowley know that they’re compromised, because as weirdly welcome as this sort-of ceasefire has been, he is still the enemy.

“Moose,” Crowley says when he finally picks up. “What a pleasant surprise.”

For not the first time, Sam finds himself wondering how Dean could have spent so much time in this man’s company, demon or not. He tells himself that they might need Crowley at some point, so he schools his voice into something that sounds a little less irritated. 

“Crowley, I need you to tell me the truth. Do you know where Dean is?”

He hears a bark of laughter from the other end of the phone. “Seriously? You remember I called you weeks ago to ask you the very same question.”

“I know, but Dean’s gone. Someone’s taken him.”

“When?” Crowley snaps.

He hesitates. “Around the same time you called.”

“ _What?_ And you thought you’d tell me that _now?_ Did you lose my number or something, Sam? Or maybe all those whacks on the head have finally sent you funny. I _told_ you the First Blade was out there and now your psycho brother is too and you didn’t think a quick call to warn me would be in order?”

Crowley’s outrage confirms to Sam that the King of Hell isn’t behind his brother’s disappearance. He glances at Cas and shakes his head, not sure whether to be relieved or not.

“We’ve been busy trying to find him,” he replies defensively, ignoring the demon’s irritation. “But every demon we’ve gotten our hands on hasn’t known anything about it.”

“Understandable if they were _my_ demons because it’s nothing to do with me, but you could have found that out if you’d just, ooh, I don’t know, _called_ me and asked? I’m guessing you’ve now come to the almost certainly correct assumption that Abaddon is the one behind Squirrel’s disappearance? Did you and that winged simpleton manage to find _anything_ out in the time _that you’ve hidden this critical piece of information from me?_ ”

Sam doesn’t want to respond, but his hesitation answers for him. Crowley appears to be making some kind of indignant spluttering noise into the phone.

“So you probably owe me several demons that you carved up unnecessarily and you’ve got absolutely nothing on the whereabouts of your brother. Does that succinctly sum up the situation here?”

Sam takes a deep breath, prepared to lose face if it helps him get Dean back.

“If you can find anything out...”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, eternally grateful and all that. Let me do a little digging, see if I can’t find out what she’s done with him. I’m not doing it for you, you understand? I just have a vested interest in not ending up as one of your brother’s greatest hits. I’ll be in touch.”

The line goes dead. Sam stares at his phone for a moment before he puts it back in his pocket and turns to look at Castiel.

“What if he’s right?” he says before the angel can say anything.

“About what?”

Sam waves a hand in frustration. “That we didn’t call him sooner. If he manages to find Dean then we’ve just wasted all those weeks.”

“Sam. If he manages to find Dean then we’ll worry about that then.” 

OoOoO

When Crowley calls three weeks later Sam snatches up the phone, praying that _finally_ this is the call that he’s been waiting for. His heart is pounding as he hits the button to answer it.

“Crowley.”

“What? No insult?”

“What have you got, Crowley?”

He realises it isn’t good news when he hears Crowley sigh – the only uncertainty is how bad the bad news is.

“As much as it pains me to admit it, I’ve got – what is you Americans say - _Bupkis?_ Whatever she’s done with your brother, she’s not telling anyone.”

Sam closes his eyes.

“How is this even possible?” he muses out loud, utterly frustrated.

“Surely you’re not asking me to list your many failings, Sam,” Crowley says in mock disbelief. “But either way, this is still a problem of monumental proportions. Honestly, I wish I’d never let him accept the bloody Mark in the first place.”

_Understatement of the fucking century_ , Sam thinks, but instead he says, “Well, keep looking then.”

He turns his attention back to his laptop but the words are just a blur. He scrubs at his face and tries to stop himself imagining what’s happening to his brother right now. All at once he feels the burn of rage that they couldn’t just be allowed to retire and live in peace.

“Sam? You okay?” 

He looks up to see Charlie approaching, her expression concerned. Early on after Dean had been taken he’d made the decision to return to the bunker, figuring that he’d have better access to the resources needed to find his brother. As far as school is concerned, he’s had to take a leave of absence to deal with a family emergency. He’s had several emails from the faculty wondering if he‘s able to give an indication of when he’ll be back. He wishes he knew.

“Yeah,” he replies wearily as she sits down across from him. _Dean’s seat_ , he tries to not think. “That was Crowley. It seems even the King of Hell himself can’t find anything out.”

Charlie makes a sympathetic face, but refrains from commenting since well-meaning but ultimately pointless platitudes are not her style. Although he doesn’t say it, Sam loves her for it.

“What about Cas?” she asks after a contemplative silence.

“Same. He’s still looking, but Heaven’s pointedly refusing to help.” He smiles crookedly. “I don’t think Dean and I are all that popular up there given our, uh, history.”

Charlie rolls her eyes and looks incensed on their behalves. 

“I know Dean says angels are dicks, but where’s the being a Good Samaritan and all that crap? Someone needs help and they’re just gonna stand back scratching their balls when they could be doing something – they do _have_ balls, don’t they?”

Sam laughs. “Honestly? I don’t know. Nothing would surprise me. Either way, they’re not for helping us no matter how nicely Castiel asks.”

Charlie nods resolutely. “Well, we’ll all keep looking.”

“Thanks. It means a lot to know that people are doing that for us.”

She stands and pats him on the shoulder as she passes. He turns his attention back to his laptop and starts to read again, this time the words making a little more sense.

OoOoO

It’s another full month after his phone call from Crowley before they get so much as a _sniff_ of a break. At first it doesn’t seem to be anything – a comment in passing on the hunters’ grapevine – but when it’s added to other information that they’ve amassed recently, he starts to think they finally could be onto something.

“So tell me again what he told you?” he asks Charlie, who relayed this information the previous evening. It’s now three A.M. and he’s apologetically gone and woken her because it’s occurred to him that it could be more important than they’d first realised.

She frowns, trying to remember, so she can give it to him verbatim.

“He said that he captured a vamp who mentioned that something’s got his nest spooked. They were in New Mexico.”

Sam nods, thinking fast. “When I spoke to Garth, he mentioned a pack that had moved on too. That was New Mexico, wasn’t it?”

“I think so.”

He’s dialling Garth’s number, aware of his escalating heart rate. Garth’s voice eventually comes on the line, thick with sleep.

“Sam? What’s up?”

“Sorry to wake you, man. I need you to tell me again what you know about the pack that left New Mexico a couple of weeks ago.”

“Uh, yeah, okay,” Garth replies, obviously trying to wake himself up. In the background Sam hears the quiet murmur of someone speaking. Bess presumably.

“They were spooked. Someone knew what they were even though they’ve managed to remain hidden for almost ten years.”

_Spooked_ – the second time he’s heard that word used in relation to New Mexico. 

“Can you find out exactly what it was that had them wanting to move on? Or _who_ the person was that had them so worried.”

“Yeah, sure. I’m guessing you think this could have something to do with Dean?”

He sighs. “I wish I could say it does. It’s a hunch – shit, probably even calling it a hunch is being optimistic, but we’ve not exactly had much to go on. That said, I reckon I’ve seen enough ‘weird’ over the years to not ignore an apparent coincidence.”

“I hear you, Sam. Leave it with me and I’ll call you straight back.”

While he’s waiting for Garth to phone back, he starts to focus his research on New Mexico. Charlie makes them some coffee and goes to call other contacts, including the one who had the shared the information from the vampire. He tries not to hope that it could mean something, but it’s impossible not to. 

He needs to find his brother, plain and simple.

OoOoO

As the sun rises over the bunker, he calls Castiel. The angel is there in an instant, his earnest expression indicating that he wants to know why Sam has summoned him so urgently. He’s packing some clothes into a duffel when Charlie comes to tell him that Castiel is waiting for him. He grabs the last couple of things, then hefts the bag onto his shoulder and heads to the main room where the angel is waiting.

“We’re going to New Mexico,” he announces, barely glancing at the other man as he gathers up his laptop and papers and scoops them into a messenger bag.

Castiel glances at Charlie, waiting for some kind of explanation for their sudden road trip. She gives the angel a quick smile and turns back to Sam, because it’s his story to tell.

“Come on,” he says, satisfied that he’s got everything he needs. “I’ll explain on the way.”

“Good luck,” Charlie says, following him to the door. When he stops and turns back she gives him a hug. He returns her embrace, glad for her support.

“I’ll call you as soon as I know anything,” he replies.

“I know. Same here if anything else comes up.”

“Thanks.”

Castiel follows behind him, climbing into the passenger seat of the Impala while Sam loads his bags into the trunk. He doesn’t say anything until they’re in motion.

“You said you think something is happening in New Mexico.”

“Yeah,” he replies, willing them to reach the interstate so he can seriously put his foot down. “The state’s been mentioned a couple of times recently - it seems like creatures are moving away in droves, like there’s something there that’s a threat to all of them. Someone is apparently approaching monsters and asking them to do a job for them. The reward is supposedly easy prey, but the ones that say yes never return. It’s happened enough now that they’re getting wary.”

“What do they think the job is?” Castiel asks.

“The rumour is that they’re being asked to kill someone. Seems simple enough, which is why they’re saying yes, but it looks like it’s a trap. Anyway, whatever’s going down it’s enough to get them spooked enough to be leaving the state. Vampires, werewolves, they’re all running from something... or someone.”

“So what’s your plan?”

Sam breathes, hoping it’ll sound as good out loud as it does in his head. 

“All vamps are linked telepathically to the Alpha Vamp, right? Well, we know at least one vamp has disappeared this way so there’s a chance that the Alpha might know what’s going on. Crowley’s convinced him to see me.”

“You think he’ll help?” Castiel says.

He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the road, not wanting to see the doubt in the angel’s expression.

“I don’t know, but we’ve got to try.”

OoOoO

Just like the last time he had an audience with the father of all vampires, Sam finds himself pulling up outside a beautiful old secluded manor house. The welcome is without the violence of last time, but no less hostile as he and Cas are led through the house by a group of male vampires. They’re shown into a large oak-panelled sitting room where they find the Alpha Vampire awaiting their arrival.

“Good afternoon, Sam Winchester. I had a feeling I’d meet you again one day. And you brought a feathered friend - how nice.”

He ignores the slightly mocking tone. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“So what is it you believe I can do for you?” the Alpha asks, eyeing him, before turning his attention to Castiel. He doesn’t invite them to sit with him, despite the large arrangement of furniture. His security hovers menacingly in the background.

“There’s something making creatures disappear. We know one of them was a vamp and I know you’re linked to all your... children, so I was wondering if you knew what had happened to them.”

The Alpha smiles and frowns. “Pardon me if I’m confused about something, but you’re a hunter aren’t you? Why would _you_ care if monsters are going missing?”

It’s a fair question. Sam nods, ready with his explanation.

“My brother... my brother has been taken by Abaddon. She’s planning on going to war against Crowley and she’s using Dean to help her.”

“My dear boy, I fail to see-”

“My brother has the Mark of Cain and we think Abaddon has the First Blade too.”

The vamp’s serene facade falters, a brief glitch that he smoothes out an instant later. He doesn’t say anything though, allowing Sam to continue.

“We think there might be a connection between these events and the creatures that are starting to flee from New Mexico.” He decides he may as well be honest and lay his cards out on the table. 

“I don’t know how or why this might be the case, but Dean disappeared several months ago, just after the First Blade was stolen from Crowley’s possession. There’s been no sign of him since and this... well, this is the first thing that’s happened that’s just strange enough to be connected. I know I don’t need to tell you what someone with the Mark and the Blade is capable of. If Abaddon has such a powerful weapon at her disposal, then no one is safe. She’ll come for anyone or anything she thinks has allied with Crowley.”

He stops and the Alpha studies him, presumably looking for bullshit or any other indication that this is some kind of trap. After a tense pause, the vamp nods.

“If my child is dead, the link is broken. However, if you can bring me one of their possessions, I will be able to see through their eyes, right up until the moment they passed.”

He feels the surge of relief that this isn’t a dead end and that the Alpha isn’t refusing to help. 

“I’ll get you something,” he says resolutely. He turns and looks at Castiel, who nods his agreement.

“Oh, and next time, leave the angel at home. The _stench_ of God is putting me off my wine.”

He doesn’t respond as he turns to leave with Castiel. The henchmen part as they walk towards the exit.

“Goodbye, Sam Winchester,” the Alpha calls after him. “Until the next time.”

He never thought he’d ever say it, but he hopes that ‘next time’ is _soon_.

OoOoO

It takes almost a full month and a few hundred miles worth of driving, but he’s able to return to the Alpha’s manor house with a jacket that the missing vamp frequently wore. Once he'd tracked them down, the nest hadn’t exactly welcomed a hunter into their midst and he’s certain that some kind of communication from the Alpha had been the only thing that had prevented him from becoming lunch.

The reception at the manor house is once again openly hostile, even though he’s there on invited terms. Frustratingly, the Alpha makes him wait while he finishes dinner. 

He doesn’t even stop to consider what dinner might actually consist of.

Eventually the Alpha emerges from the dining room. He’s wearing that amused smile, which seems to grow as he studies the wearied man in front of him. 

“You succeeded then?”

Sam holds out the jacket for the Alpha to take. The vampire hesitates, a teasing smile on his lips.

“Do you want to see?”

Sam startles. “To see? You mean I can?”

“Yes. Of course, you might not like what you see.”

He nods, resolute. Although he doesn’t think the Alpha would lie, he’d feel happier knowing he’d seen it for himself. Plus, having to ask the father of all vampires if he’d maybe missed something isn’t a prospect he’d particularly relish.

“Show me,” he replies.

“Very well. You’d better sit down.”

The Alpha sits down across from him, the missing vampire’s jacket draped across his knees. The vampire grasps a handful of the garment, then reaches across the divide and gestures for Sam’s hand. As soon as their hands touch, he finds himself jerked forcefully into a scene he doesn’t recognise.

_It’s a bar. He’s drinking and laughing and eyeing up the other patrons with other members of his nest. Decorations hang from the light fittings and a tiny, but pathetic Christmas Tree stands on the far end of the bar. Someone has put ‘The Fairytale of New York’ on the jukebox and people are singing along loudly, with little regard for the actual tune._

_A guy approaches their table. He’s got long blond hair and a hooked nose that takes up valuable real estate on his face._

_“I’ve got an offer,” the guy says without pre-amble._

_They’re all laughing because this guy’s clearly a fucking idiot. He obviously has no idea what he’s walked into. They say they’ll hear him out – humour him for a few moments before one of them will kill him later. He’s an ugly bastard, but a meal’s a meal, after all._

_He explains that he needs someone killed. It’s an easy kill – no problem for a vampire. They study the guy more closely now – tension crackling in the air. The guy grins and explains by way of his eyes which are now black as onyx._

_“Why don’t you kill him yourself?” one of the other guys asks. “If it’s so easy.”_

_“Can’t,” the guy replies. “My kind have been sworn off him. Orders from above... or down below, depending on how you look at it.”_

_“What’s so special about him?”_

_“Nothing. He’s just a disgusting, pathetic human, but my boss thinks he might be useful as a bargaining chip to one of her enemies. He’s not though, so I want him gone.”_

_“No offense, man, but I can’t see the real advantage for us,” one vamp says, gesturing around the crowded bar. “Look where we are – there’s more food here than we need.”_

_“Yeah, but this one won’t generate a missing person’s report that might bring the heat down on you, and there’s another bonus. This guy’s a hunter.” The hooked nosed guy pauses to allow this information to sink in. “Imagine being the vamp that took a hunter off the map.”_

_There’s muttering now; this has definitely piqued their interest._

_“I’ll do it,” he says, before any of the others can get in there first._

_The demon looks pleased._

_“When d’you want it done?”_

_“No time like the present.”_

_He drains his beer and stands up. The other vamps are watching him. Some look pissed, but it’s too bad._

_The demon leads the way out of the bar. He’s got a car in the parking lot – a sleek black Chrysler that he climbs into. He’s still smiling._

_“So who’s this hunter?” he asks once they’re in motion._

_“No one you’d know,” the guy replies, which is the sum of their conversation for the entire journey._

_They arrive at an unassuming single storey house at the end of a narrow dirt track. He’s studying the place when the demon switches off the engine and throws his door open._

_“Come on. I’ll show you where he is.”_

_Together they enter the house and walk through into the kitchen. The house appears to be empty._

_“He’s in there,” the demon says, gesturing toward a door that leads into the basement. He points at design painted onto the wood. “Devil’s trap. I can’t do it myself because it’s warded against demons.”_

_He nods. “Anything I need to know?”_

_“No. He’s got some laughable old piece of bone that he thinks could be some kind of weapon, but he’s chained up.” The guy grins. “Should be a walk in the park for someone like you.”_

_He laughs and grasps the door handle. “Back soon.”_

_He descends the wooden stairs, on guard just in case this is all a trick, but the scene at the bottom is exactly as the demon described. The hunter is watching his arrival, his expression impassive. He’s standing barefoot on a mattress on the floor and there’s a chain around his ankle that is secured to the wall at the other end. In front of him on the floor is the jawbone knife that the demon mentioned. The hunter doesn’t appear to be making any moves to pick it up though._

_“Dude,” the guy says, and he sounds as if this is just putting the finishing touches on a really shitty day. Then he attempts to talk his way out of his inevitable fate – but the really laughable thing is that this idiot is making it sound like he’s the one holding all the cards._

_He laughs. He may have only been a vamp for the last fifteen years, but he’s still pretty certain that he’s heard every conceivable attempt to get out of what will happen next – desperate bribes and promises of rewards are the usual course of action, but this guy’s somehow implying that him and his animal bone are a serious threat and he’s the one in danger._

_“Don’t say I didn’t try,” the hunter says as he bends and picks up the weapon, the chain around his ankle clinking loudly._

_Still laughing, he steps forwards and then-_

Sam gasps in a breath as he’s snapped back to the present. He resists the urge to put his hands to his neck to check his head’s still attached, but the Alpha still appears to be amused by his reaction to this experience.

“So, did you see what you expected to?”

He doesn’t respond for a moment as his mind races to make sense of everything he’s just seen. Dean, chained, wielding the First Blade. He realises that the Alpha is speaking again.

“You understand that I’m not very happy your brother killed one of my children?”

“It was self defence,” he snaps, forgetting momentarily that this is a man that he probably doesn’t want to piss off. “You saw how he tried to talk that vamp out of attacking him. He gave him fair warning.”

“True, but with the Mark of Cain, the lure of that godforsaken weapon will be too much for him. You know there’s a good chance your brother might be lost already?”

“No,” he asserts forcefully, “Whatever’s happened, I’ll get him back.”

“I’ll admit I admire your tenacity, Sam. I hope your quest isn’t a fruitless one.” The Alpha smiles, but the expression is cold. 

“Of course, I’ll have to decide whether I’ll pursue vengeance against your brother if you get him back. No offense.” 

He ignores the threat, instead giving a tense nod. 

“I appreciate your assistance,” he says, “but when I get my brother back, we’ll have to decide if we come after _you_ next. No offense.” 

He turns and leaves, trying to pretend that the soft chuckle he hears behind him is just his imagination.

OoOoO 

He thinks about Dean as he drives away from the manor house, trying to recall every detail of what he saw in the vision. Timewise, he knows it must have been a while ago because of the Christmas decorations, but physically Dean looked okay, apart from a fading scar on his forehead that disappeared into his hairline. His brother looked tired though – like the situation was seriously taking its toll. He wonders how long Dean has had the First Blade for now.

Castiel is waiting for him at the motel room. He relays everything that happened and everything he saw through the dead vamp’s eyes. Ultimately it gives them no further clues as to where exactly Dean is or what’s happening to him right now, but seeing his brother gives him hope that Dean is still alive.

“So what’s our next move?” Castiel asks when he’s finished speaking. 

He pauses for a moment to study the maps he has pinned to the motel room wall. There are pins marking locations where they’re certain creatures disappeared from. There’s got to be a pattern – he just can’t see it yet.

“I dunno. Maybe I should call Garth, see if he can speak to someone from the pack that fled.”

“Okay. While you do that, I’m going to go and get you some food,” Cas says solemnly. “You look tired, Sam.”

“I’m okay-”

“And you won’t be able to help Dean if you’re not taking care of yourself properly.”

The angel leaves before he can argue, although a part of him agrees that Cas has a point. He’s not been sleeping and the nutritional value of the meals he’s been having while he researches leave a hell of a lot to be desired. He makes a decision that once he’s called Garth, he’ll try and catch a little shut eye before Cas comes back.

He dials Garth’s number and listens to it ring. He’s just about to end the call when it’s answered, Garth’s voice coming on the line in a breathless hurry. 

“Sam.”

“Hey, Garth,” he says frowning. “You okay, man? If it’s not a good time I can call back. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about the pack that left New Mexico in a hurry.”

“They’re all dead,” Garth announces, and he realises that the other man is upset. He catches the faint sound of someone weeping at Garth’s end of the phone. “Slaughtered, every last one of them.”

Sam listens, his heart starting to pound even though there could be another explanation. There could be _many_ different explanations, but he knows it'll be the one he likes least. 

“I’m here now,” Garth continues. “Sam, it’s a massacre. I don’t know what could have done this.”

He’s glad Garth didn’t phrase that as a question because his mind is already suggesting just one possibility. The thought makes him nauseous. 

“Garth, tell me where you are and I’ll come.”

It’s either a measure of how bad things are or how bad Garth is freaking out that he doesn’t argue against his involvement. Garth gives him an address, which he’s put into his laptop while the other man’s still speaking. It’s about an hour’s drive from where he is.

“Sit tight, man. I’ll set off now. I think this is connected with what’s going on with Abaddon,” he adds, deliberately mentioning the demon rather than Dean.

“Thanks, Sam,” Garth replies, before he hangs up.

He leaves a note for Castiel and sets off. Admittedly he doesn’t know whether this minor road trip will be of any use in the hunt for Dean, but he figures it’s better than sitting around in his motel room staring at the walls. He remembers that he’s supposed to be getting some rest and makes a deal with himself that he’ll definitely, _definitely_ get some sleep once he’s checked it out. 

OoOoO

He arrives at the farm where the pack had made their new home. There’s a large farmhouse and a series of outbuildings and an overwhelming stench of blood, which he notices almost as soon as he climbs from the car.

Having heard the engine, Garth is coming to meet him, his expression solemn.

“Hey, Sam,” Garth says, instinctively pulling him in for a hug, although it’s much more muted than usual. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem,” he replies. “So you wanna tell me what happened?”

“Like I said when we spoke before, Bess’s cousin was a member of this pack by marriage,” Garth explains as they start to walk towards one the buildings. “When Bess spoke to her, she said they were upping and moving because a man had approached them and he knew what they were.”

“Did she describe the man?”

“Tall, blond. She said none of them had ever seen him before. He said he knew someone who was coming to kill them – a hunter. He offered to take one of them so they could deal with him before he exposed them. They voted and felt that, in this case, violence was justified. Remember – they’d successfully remained hidden for almost _ten years_ ; they were well established where they were, they had lives and jobs, so extinguishing one threat seemed like the logical option.

“Once they’d voted, someone volunteered to be the one to do it and he went with the guy and never returned. When that happened, they decided they should run. They ended up here.”

Sam shakes his head. They’ve stopped outside a large barn. The smell of blood is stronger here and it assaults his olfactory nerves. 

“Didn’t they think it was suspicious at all? Didn’t they question what was in it for some random guy who just shows up and tells them they’re in danger?”

Garth shrugs. “What can I say? We don’t always react logically when we’re scared. Whatever their mistakes, they didn’t deserve _this_.”

Garth pulls open one of the large sliding doors. There’s a screech of hinges and suddenly he’s thrown into the nightmarish tableau. It’s hard to tell how many bodies there are, but they lie strewn about the place, all children of the same father, creations of the same architect. He swallows hard and is instantly transported back to the day when they rescued Claire Novak from the loan sharks. He recognises his brother’s handiwork.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. 

“There are more in the house, and the other outbuildings. As packs go, they were quite large.”

He’s trying not to look too closely, but his eyes catch on the butchered body of a teenage boy. They were all werewolves, but Garth’s right – they didn’t deserve this.

“Sam?” Garth says when he doesn’t say anything in response. “Are you thinking this could be Dean’s doing?”

He breathes for a moment, even though he’s no choice but to answer the question.

“Abaddon has forced Dean to take up the First Blade. I’d thought that all the disappearances pointed to her, but I finally had it confirmed just before I spoke to you earlier.”

He tells Garth about his encounter with the Alpha Vampire and the vision he bore witness to. 

“Dean was trying to avoid having to handle the First Blade, but he had no choice. I think all the creatures that have disappeared have been tricked into trying to kill him, leaving him no choice but to take up the weapon and save himself with it. Every time he’s been forced to kill, it’s increased its hold over him until...” He trails off, unable to voice the awful conclusion.

Garth is watching him closely and it’s clear he’s trying to make sense of how someone he’s considered a friend and mentor could carry out the massacre that they’re both looking at now. 

“There’s a rumour, Sam. You see, ‘monsters’” – he makes inverted commas with his fingers, since he’s now one of that number – “despite their differences, actually share a lot of the same mythology. There’s a legend among almost all species, about a being with the power to destroy all of us. He’s referred to as ‘The One Who Destroys Everything’. In some stories he’s a monster, like in a human sense of the word – all teeth and fangs and two hundred feet tall. In others, he’s just a man.”

Garth hesitates, briefly meeting Sam’s gaze before he looks away again. “They’re saying he’s here, Sam, and I wanna believe that it’s just a coincidence, I _do_ , but Dean...”

“I know, and I’m not trying to say you’re wrong because he’s my brother, but Dean’s not Dean right now. We retired because he could see what the Mark was making him become, every time he used the First Blade. When we couldn’t find a way to remove the Mark, we knew we had to get out of The Life – that being in violent situations, even without the Blade, was turning Dean into something he didn’t want to be. He was losing himself and getting out was the only solution.

“Abaddon’s after Crowley’s crown so she took both Dean and the Blade because she knew she’d be able to use Dean as a weapon to do her bidding. I don’t know if he’s this thing you’re talking about or not, but I need to find Dean and get him away from Abaddon.”

“But why would she be interested in killing werewolves? Or vamps for that matter?”

“She isn’t. I think she’s just been using them to train Dean.”

“So they were _target practice_? That’s it?” Garth replies angrily.

“Yeah. I’m really sorry, man. You’ve gotta know that he’s not doing this by choice.” He hates what he’s about to say, but the analogy is an appropriate one. “It’s like taking an ex-junkie and giving them no choice but to get back on the drugs. She’s done it gradually until the addiction has got the better of him and he’s exactly where she wants him.”

Garth waves his hand at the scene before them.

“So what’s this? Some kind of field test?”

Sam looks at the carnage one last time. “I think that’s exactly what it is.”

OoOoO 

Two weeks later and it becomes apparent that Abaddon isn’t done with her field testing. There’s a news story about the killing of a women’s book club – eight middle-aged women slaughtered as they met to discuss _Fifty Shades of Grey_ or something equally terrible. The suspicion falls on one of the women’s husbands who has promptly disappeared, but Sam knows different.

His own investigations confirm his suspicion that the women were actually a coven of witches and he doesn’t need to see the bodies to know that his brother is the unwilling architect of their destinies – the gruesome descriptions in the media are enough to send his heart plummeting.

At the bunker Charlie researches the legend Garth talked about. Now they know what to look for, she comes across the phrase ‘The One Who Destroys Everything’ in all the creature mythologies the Men of Letters have information on. As Garth had explained, some of them refer to a non-specific harbinger of chaos who will bring their kind to extinction; others have greater detail, an attempt to give a date or location, but it’s the shapeshifters lore that gives them the biggest clue that Garth might be right.

Charlie emails him the information she’s found. She says that she’s sending an image too and her muted voice on the phone tells him that it’s significant. When he opens the attachment, his pulse quickens. The picture scanned from an ancient text shows a dark-haired man with a blade. Given the age of the tome that it came from, the clothes are a complete anachronism. The other thing that catches his eye is the patch of red on the man’s forearm. It’s not clear what it is, but the fact that it’s in the exact place that Dean has the Mark of Cain, tells him that they need to be very, very worried.

It also perhaps answers why the Alpha Vampire agreed to help him. He tries desperately to recall the vampire’s visions that the Alpha showed him in the hope that he might be able to recall the route from the bar to the house where Dean is being kept. But the vamp hadn’t actually paid that much attention and it was dark, so aside from a vague idea of how long he was in the car for, he has no real idea of what direction they took.

The scale of the killing makes him think that Abaddon might feel that Dean is ready to be part of her grand plan to take Crowley’s crown, which gets him thinking. Castiel doesn’t voice any argument when he tells him that he thinks it’s time to involve Crowley. He summons the demon who appears, looking distinctly displeased.

“You know you could just have called me, you know I have a phone,” Crowley complains as he studies the interior of the motel room with apparent distaste.

“I’m out of minutes. Listen, we need to do something, but I’ve got some questions first.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Fire away.”

“Okay. From what’s happened recently with the werewolves and now the witches, it seems that Abaddon is taking Dean out and turning him loose on larger targets. Dean won’t be doing it willingly,” he says firmly, eyeing Crowley in warning so he doesn’t make a smart comment, “so we’ve got to assume that Dean is under the spell of the Blade by now. In which case, how is she controlling him and stopping him once he’s done?”

Crowley considers this for a moment. 

“Dangerous animals need to be kept on a leash.” He appears to ignore the murderous look Sam gives him at his choice of metaphor. 

“Take hellhounds, for example. I’m their master, obviously, but with something so dangerous, there’s always the chance that they could turn round and bite the hand that feeds them. They wear collars that are designed so that in conjunction with an incantation I can incapacitate them at any time if I need to. Maybe she’s using something like that.”

He doesn’t respond while he allows himself to picture Dean in the vamp’s final moments. Something occurs to him.

“In the room where Dean’s being kept, she’s got him chained by the ankle. Could she be using that?”

Crowley shrugs. “A few symbols etched into it and you’ve got yourself a leash that could control the most dangerous of mutts.”

“Since they’re now taking him outside the house, it must be the actual cuff around his ankle rather than the chain.”

“Sounds logical.”

He paces for a moment, an idea starting to germinate. He doubts Crowley is going to like it, but the more he thinks about it, the more it seems like the only way to get Dean back. 

“Okay, so next question – do you think Abaddon has been on the scene to control Dean after he’s done?”

“Probably,” Crowley replies. “It’s like giving others access to the big red nuke button if she lets one of her underlings know how to do it. There’s always a chance, if someone else can control him, that one of her minions could turn on her because, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but demons can be treacherous bastards.”

“So we need to draw them out,” he says, ignoring Crowley’s judgement on demon-kind. “Give her an opportunity she won’t be able to resist.”

Crowley glances at Castiel who has remained silent so far. “Like what, because I’m already getting the feeling that I’m not going to like this.”

“What if she got wind that there was going to be a large gathering of you and your demons?”

“What? You think we hold some kind of demon AGM once a year?”

“Think of it like a kind of... pep rally. She’s bound to know that you know about her plans by now. It’s logical that you’d want to assemble your troops and give them the fearless leader speech. If she finds out what you’re up to, there’s a good chance she’ll want to bring Dean into play, either to decimate your numbers or actually go straight in for the kill.”

“So _my_ head’s the one going on the chopping block, huh?” Crowley says. “Give me one good reason why you think I should be sticking my neck out and writing ’please sever here’ on it?”

“Because it’ll be a trap.”

“Yeah? So how do you envisage that we’ll stop your homicidal brother once he’s got started? If he’s lost to the Blade now, then we’re all dead. He won’t look at you and think, ‘that’s my beloved little brother Sammy’; he’ll just be wondering which part of your body he should stab you in first. Sorry if that seems a bit harsh, Moose, but you’re deluded if you think that things will pan out any differently.”

He nods absently, his mind still formulating how this could go down. “We need to trap Abaddon. If Dean’s lost to the Blade as you put it, then he’s as much a danger to her as he is to us. She’ll have no choice but to knock him out or whatever the hell she does to him to get him to stop. Once he’s out of it, we can take him away.”

“That’s assuming she can stop him before he tries to take her out. Whatever incantation she’s using to control him, you won’t just be able to guess it or hit the override button. Think of it like a combination lock – she’s chosen the numbers. If she’s not able to input the code, well, then we’re all royally screwed.”

“We’ll worry about that later,” he replies.

Crowley shakes his head. “This is, without a doubt, one of the stupidest plans I’ve ever heard.” The King of Hell then decides to appeal to Cas. “You’re not seriously going along with this, are you?”

“It could work,” Castiel replies flatly. “Abaddon won’t risk Dean coming after her, so if she’s trapped with him, then she’ll have no choice but to call him off. Once she’s done that we can focus on getting him away from her and the First Blade.”

“Oh brilliant,” Crowley complains. “Both of you are crazy. You know that, right?”

“Look,” Sam says, irritated. “If she’s using Dean as a weapon, your demons are going to start dying anyway. This is our chance to stop her, and to get Dean back.”

“You’re forgetting, Moose, that Dean won’t want to come back. She’s turned him into a six foot something psychotic maniac who’s only interested in one thing, and that’s killing things in a multitude of impossibly violent ways. I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but are you even sure that you _want_ him back?”

He simply glares because he refuses to contemplate that they may never be able to pull Dean back, even though it’s clear that he’s gone over the edge this time. Crowley sees the stubborn set of his jaw and rolls his eyes.

“ _Fine_. We’ll work out a plan. See if we can lure the rat out of the drainpipe, so to speak.”

OoOoO

Three weeks later and they’re ready. He wakes with a feeling – it’s anticipation but it’s also suffused with a large amount of dread. By the end of the day he could have his brother back, it’s true, but the sheer amount of _other_ potential outcomes means this plan is by no means a dead cert. Once he’s up and showered, he calls Charlie.

“Hey, Sam,” she says, answering after a couple of rings. “How’s it going?”

“Okay, I’m okay, I think.”

“It’s going ahead today, right?”

“Yeah. Crowley’s rounded up his forces and the word is out there. We just need to see whether Abaddon shows... and whether she brings Dean.”

Evidently she can sense the doubt in his voice. “Are you sure you don’t want me to do anything, Sam? I can get in the car right now...”

He smiles, glad that he and Dean have some friends in this world.

“Thanks, Charlie but you need to stay put. I don’t want you putting yourself at risk. The Men of Letters did important work, which you’re continuing and the world needs that, even though the thanks is poor and the pay is non-existent. You’ve been a good friend to us, Charlie-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sam. Why is this sounding like goodbye?”

“Sorry,” he says, “I just want you to know you’re appreciated, whatever happens today.”

“Okay, I’m just gonna put my fingers in my ears and pretend you’re not giving me the ‘you’ll be fine without me’ speech because I’m expecting you back here soon, with your equally awesome big brother with you, okay?”

He laughs. “Okay. Take care, Charlie.”

“You too, Sam.”

He goes with Castiel to make the final preparations. Crowley is staying away to ensure that their ruse isn’t compromised, but they’ve discussed what will happen down to the smallest detail. The demon is still being the harbinger of doom, certain that their plan will go wrong at some point, but he’s going along with it, which tells Sam that the risk is worth it if it takes Abaddon and her weapon of mass destruction off the board.

As evening falls, Crowley’s demons start to arrive. They’ve chosen a warehouse whose nearest neighbours are all empty because they’re up for rent. The building will easily accommodate a couple of hundred people – they’re not sure how many demons Crowley has told to come, but they need it to be enough to tempt Abaddon to act.

Having thoroughly scouted out the place, everything is ready for the evening’s events. He sits with Castiel at a safe distance and watches people slip inside the building, some alone, others in small groups. They’re all ages and races with nothing seemingly in common except the blackness of their souls.

“Are you okay, Sam?” Cas asks, his intense expression emerging from the shadows within the nondescript car that they’re sitting in.

“Yeah. Or yeah, I will be once this is over.” He wants to stay positive because the odds are stacked against them, but he finds himself voicing his fears anyway. 

“Cas, do you think we’ll be able to get Dean back?”

“I think your plan is a good one. Abaddon will have to incapacitate him if-”

“No, I mean, if we can get him away from Abaddon and the Blade. Is there a chance that it might be too late?”

Castiel sighs, which isn’t exactly the response that he’s hoping for. 

“Sam... I’m afraid the answer is that I just don’t know. The Blade and the Mark’s power is so strong... it was inevitable that Dean would succumb in the end. Pulling him back from it will undoubtedly be difficult, but we’ll try. We owe it to him to try.”

“ _I_ owe it to him,” Sam corrects, studying his hands, “I’m the one that let him down. I promised him that I wouldn’t let this happen and yet it did.”

“Sam...”

“No, it’s okay, Cas. I screwed up; there’s no point pretending otherwise. The best I can do now is to try and save him, or die trying.” When he glances over at Cas, the angel looks faintly amused. 

“What?”

“Nothing. Just you sound exactly like Dean.”

He finds himself smiling too. “Yeah... I guess I do.”

They sit in silence for a moment before Sam decides to voice the thought that's been scratching away at the back of his mind ever since they first formulated this plan. Once upon a time it would have gone against his strong sense of ethics, but he's long since learned that ethics count for shit when you're making deals with demons.

"You know, Cas," he says, eyes never leaving the view beyond the windshield. "Don't feel like you _have_ to make sure Crowley and his demons get out of there."

He glances over when Cas doesn't respond. The angel is frowning in incomprehension.

"I mean, if you've gotta ward the exits before Crowley gets there then that's just tough luck for him."

Cas does the face that says he's trying to read between the lines, but coming up with blank spaces. Sam rolls his eyes.

"Think about it, Cas. If Crowley is trapped in there with Abaddon, there's bound to be _some_ kind of showdown between them." He shrugs, knows it probably makes him a callous asshole, but who cares? "It'll take at least one of our opponents off the board."

"You know, Moose, I'd always had Dean pegged as the sneaky bastard, but it seems I should have been paying more attention to you." Crowley glares at him as he jumps and spins to face the demon now sitting in the back seat.

"Crowley," he rushes to say, thinking _shit, I've fucked things up_. "Don't you know it's rude to eavesdrop?"

"Rude, but also essential if you're a believer in self-preservation."

"So what? You gonna bail on us now?"

Crowley huffs an indignant noise. "Guess you'll just have to wait and see."

The back seat's empty once more.

"Shit!" Sam growls, out loud this time, which appears to be an accurate summation of events.

OoOoO

The majority of demons have been inside for almost an hour. They’re starting to think the situation might be a bust when a large people carrier with its lights off rolls up to the side of the warehouse and shuts off the engine. He steals a look at Cas to confirm that the angel has seen it too.

The driver’s door opens and a man climbs out. His heart begins to thud in his chest because even at this distance, he can tell that it’s the demon that approached the vampire’s nest in the bar. The guy goes around the vehicle and opens the passenger door and suddenly there she is - all tousled red hair and attitude. She’s smiling as she watches her companion go to the rear door and pull it open. He sees the guy say something and then there’s movement from within the car.

He’s dimly aware of Cas saying his name, but it’s impossible to focus as he watches his brother climb out of the vehicle, shackled hand and foot like he’s part of a prison chain gang. Dean’s expression is completely blank, like he’s not even aware of where he is. He doesn’t look at Abaddon or her minion despite the fact that they seem to be talking. From inside her jacket Abaddon removes a small cloth-wrapped parcel before she turns and heads towards the building. The blond-haired demon gives Dean a shove and he hobbles after her.

“ _Sam_ ,” Cas says, more insistently this time. “We need to get moving.”

He comes back to himself with a jolt. Together they slip from their car and start to make their way towards the warehouse, each taking a different route but being careful to stay out of sight. The blond demon that he saw in the vision has stayed by the car so he heads in that direction first. As he approaches, he can hear the guy whistling to himself - a jaunty melody that says he’s certain this night will go well for them.

For that alone, he’d love to kill the asshole slowly and painfully, but there are more important matters at hand. Instead he sneaks up to the car, settles the demon-killing knife in his grip and plunges it into the demon’s body, pinning him to the driver’s seat. The body sparks and then it’s all over. He checks that the resulting light show hasn’t drawn any attention, before he drags the body out and hides it behind some nearby dumpsters.

He ignores the fact that it felt too easy and slips inside the building, cautious that he doesn’t move too quickly and run into the very people he’s pursuing. The corridor he enters is quiet. In the distance he can hear Crowley on the warehouse floor, doing his best Winston Churchill impression as he attempts to motivate his troops in the fight against his arch enemy.

Eyes and ears constantly on alert for danger, he quickly uncovers the half-completed devil’s trap he drew earlier on the floor. He finishes the sigil so that now Abaddon will not be able to come back this way. He says a silent prayer that Cas has done the same on the other exits. The whole place is now warded, preventing any of the demons from either leaving or smoking out of their meatsuits – the part of the plan that, understandably, Crowley was least happy with.

The corridor turns and then leads directly into the main part of the warehouse, where Crowley and his demons are. Cautiously he glances round the corner. Abaddon is standing with Dean, but they’re both facing towards the doors that lead to where the evening’s main entertainment is about to begin. 

Abaddon is removing the shackles from around his brother’s ankles before she starts on the ones at his wrists. He realises his theory was correct as he notices that she’s left the cuff around his left ankle in place. Even at this distance he can see a row of symbols etched into the metal. Once she’s done, she studies him for a moment, a hungry smile on her lips.

“Okay, Big Boy. It’s time for you to go to work.”

Dean’s expression never alters until she moves to hand him the parcel. Then it’s like he finally comes alive, like a man caught in the rush of something overwhelmingly intense. She steps back as he unwraps the First Blade and, from his hiding place, Sam catches a brief flicker of fear in her expression as Dean studies her for a moment, his gaze dark and predatory. Then, with a flick of her hand, she throws open the double doors, allowing him to catch a glimpse of an _entire warehouse full of people to kill_ and he’s gone in an instant.

All Hell breaks loose.

As expected Abaddon stands on the threshold of the room, watching while her pet goes to work. Sam doesn’t need to see her expression to know that she’s thoroughly enjoying the show. For a moment, he too is transfixed by the sight of Dean hacking and slashing his way through the phalanx of demons, his face a study in concentration. The demons aren’t completely helpless and some try to fight back. One has a knife and he succeeds in slashing his brother across the arm, but Dean neither slows nor even indicates that he’s been wounded. Apart from grunts of exertion he doesn’t make a single sound.

Forcing himself to focus, Sam sets his part of the plan into motion. He hopes that one day they’ll be able to look back on it and laugh because this part is _definitely_ the bit that leaves a lot to be desired. He emerges from the shadows and stealthily creeps towards Abaddon, picking up speed when it’s clear that he could probably tap dance his way towards her and not be heard over the chaos. She hears him at the last second and starts to turn, but it’s too late – by that point she’s got a taller than average well-muscled adult male bearing down on her and he barrels into her, sending her flying into the room beyond. She crashes into other demons, who are either fighting or trying to flee.

As he hoped, the melee means she can’t react fast enough and he’s able to light the holy oil line across the doorway so she’s now trapped in the same room as her weapon. Elsewhere, he knows Cas will be upholding their end of the bargain – ordinarily they wouldn’t be assisting demons to escape, but part of getting Crowley to help was the agreement that they would try to limit the number of demon casualties. Despite this, it’s still going to end bloody because Dean is on a _rampage_.

Trying not to get sucked into watching the horror show unfold, he uncovers the next devil’s trap and sprays the last couple of lines to complete it so even if the holy fire burns out, Abaddon won’t be able to exit this way. With that done, he throws down a line of salt for good measure. 

Satisfied that this exit is secure, he sprints back out and around the outside of the building. Even out here, he can hear the screams coming from inside the warehouse. There are three other doors, but he runs past the two that have devil’s traps now painted on them. The third is open and demons are currently spilling from it. They ignore him as they pass; presumably they have no interest in anyone who wants to run _towards_ almost certain destruction. 

The exodus suddenly stops – either all the demons still alive are now out, or Castiel has ignited the holy oil at this exit too. He finds Cas in the corridor, watching the scene within the warehouse. The holy oil remains unlit.

“Where’s Crowley?” he gasps, lungs burning from exertion.

The angel turns at the sound of his voice. “He’s gone. He wanted to be as far away from your brother as possible.”

“Yeah, I get that. What’s happening now?” he says, stepping towards the doorway to look for himself. Castiel grabs hold of his arm.

“Sam, you might not want to see.”

Ignoring the angel’s warning, he steps forward, into the main part of the warehouse, where it’s suddenly eerily quiet. The floor is littered with bodies. Despite the size of the building, Dean has moved fast and managed to take out demons all over the place, but there’s a definite area, not far from the exit Sam was responsible for sealing, where the majority of the violence is concentrated. 

It’s in the eye of this storm that he sees his brother. Dean is surrounded by the death and destruction that he is solely responsible for and although he doesn’t appear hurt, he is painted in blood. He doesn’t know if it’s this Castiel didn’t want him to see, or the fact that Dean is sitting astride Abaddon’s obviously dead body and stabbing it frenziedly. His heart sinks. Abaddon evidently didn't get chance to hit the kill switch.

He backs out of sight quickly, meeting Castiel’s worried gaze.

“What do we do now, Cas?” he asks, aware of his own escalating panic. If Dean gets loose then they’ve doomed a _lot_ of innocent people.

“There’s one thing I can try,” Cas says, but it’s clear he’s not happy about it.

“Cas, if it’s going to use up your grace then it’s not an option,” he starts.

“No, it’s not that. I mean, yes, it will use it up, but that’s not the problem.” Cas glances back into the warehouse to check they’re not in danger. “The problem is Dean, or rather the Mark and Dean. He’s so powerful; it’ll take a lot to take him down. I could kill him, Sam.”

This is his nightmare. Finally – _finally_ \- they’ve found his brother and yet they still might not be able to save him. The decision is out of his hands really. Dean is lost to the Blade, just as Crowley predicted, and he can’t, in good conscience, risk his brother killing anyone else. He still feels devastated saying the words though.

“Do it, Cas.”

He follows the angel into the warehouse. Dean evidently senses their approach because he finally stops stabbing Abaddon’s corpse. He looks round at them, but the emptiness in his gaze is like staring into a chasm. Slowly, Dean starts to stand, so painted in blood that it’s difficult to tell where the Blade ends and where his hand begins: truly a marriage made only in the pits of Hell.

“Cas...” Sam says as Dean begins to stride toward them – a purposeful executioner’s tread.

“You need to cover your eyes,” Castiel warns.

He doesn’t need telling twice. 

All at once there’s a piercing noise that grows steadily in volume and intensity. Just as he thinks it’s about to burst his eardrums, a bright light forces itself beneath his eyelids and then... then...

“Sam? _Sam?_ ”

He opens his eyes and sees Castiel’s concerned face looking down at him. He realises that he’s lying on the warehouse floor.

“Sam? Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, scrambling to get up. There’s ringing in his ears and he’s got a bitch of a headache. Castiel, despite being vertical, looks like he's done ten rounds with Mike Tyson, his grace clearly being the one to take the beating. “Are you okay, Cas?”

Cas nods slowly. "As humans say... I'll live."

"What _happened_?" Sam asks, frowning.

Before Castiel can answer, he recalls their last conversation. Despite the pounding sensation in his skull, he spins around to look at his brother. 

Dean is lying motionless on the floor some fifty feet away from them. He glances at Castiel and starts to run.

“Sam! He’s okay,” Castiel calls to him. “I’ve checked him.”

He believes Cas, he does, but he still feels better when he’s put his fingers to Dean’s neck and feels the weak but steady pulse beneath the skin. 

“We need to get him out of here,” he says, sensing the angel’s approach. He winces as he goes to pick his brother up because he’s _covered_ in blood. It doesn’t stop him pulling Dean tight into his chest and despite the potential disaster that they may just have postponed rather than averted, he takes a second to appreciate the _solidness_ of his brother’s form in his arms. _Thank God_ , he thinks. _Please let him be okay._

“And we need to get rid of that,” he spits at the Blade. Castiel nods and scoops it up into the folds of his trench coat. Together they head for the exit.

They’ve just crossed the now burnt out line of holy oil when Castiel stops. Sam does the same when he realises the angel is no longer next to him. He turns and realises that Cas is looking at the shackles lying abandoned where Abaddon had released Dean.

“Sam...” is all he says.

“No, Cas. _No_. Dean’s been through enough. How’d you think he’ll feel when he realises that we’ve chained him up too?”

“Sam. We don’t know what Dean will be like when he wakes up. Even without the First Blade around, he’s still likely to be extremely dangerous. It’s a long drive to the bunker; what if he comes to before you get there?”

He knows Cas is right. _This_ Dean is a homicidal maniac who wants nothing more than to feel the rush of killing people again and again and again. There’s a solution here, but he _hates_ it. Even so, common sense wins out and he gently sets Dean down on the floor.

“I’ll ward them like Abaddon did,” Castiel states as he chains Dean’s wrists. “Even if he regains consciousness, it should dampen the Mark’s power.”

Sam watches as the angel then goes to fit the ones on Dean’s legs. He winces as Castiel pushes up the leg of Dean’s blood-soaked jeans and reveals the cuff that has presumably been in place for the entire period of his brother’s captivity. The skin around it is sore and broken, but that will have to be for another time while it still serves a purpose. Cas uses his power to reattach the chain and the cuff briefly glows. Satisfied, that Dean is suitably restrained, the angel steps back, allowing him to settle Dean in his arms once again.

“You’ll be safe now,” Cas pronounces. He roots in his pocket for a scrap of paper, and with a flick of his fingers words start to appear. “This is the incantation to lock and unlock the chains. Do you want me to return to the bunker with you?”

He shakes his head. “No. You concentrate on getting rid of the First Blade. If you can’t find a way to destroy it then you need to do a better job of hiding it than Crowley did.”

“Understood. Take care, Sam, I’ll rejoin you as soon as it’s gone.”

He gets Dean back to the car and lays him down on the backseat. The knife wound the demon inflicted in a hopeless attempt at self defence has stopped bleeding so he quickly cleans the wound and dresses it, aware of every minute ticking by. He covers Dean with a blanket and climbs behind the wheel. 

It takes twenty minutes to get back to the motel he and Cas had based themselves at. Anxious not to leave Dean for a single moment, he wouldn’t have bothered returning, but for the fact that the Impala is here. He parks close to the other vehicle and transfers Dean’s unconscious body as quickly as possible, wincing at the sound of rattling chains as he moves him. His stuff is still in the room, but it’s only toiletries and a couple of items of clothing so he gets into the car and drives.

Once they’re on the open road, he calls Charlie.

“Sam!” she says, sounding breathless and relieved when she picks up.

“We got him,” he replies, in lieu of a greeting and he can’t resist grinning at the sound of her celebrations at the other end of the phone.

“Is he okay? What happened?”

He gives her a slightly sanitised version of events because he hates the thought of her thinking about Dean like he’s some kind of monster. He finishes up by telling her that they’re on their way back to the bunker.

“Okay, I’ll get his room ready.”

“Uh, yeah... about that. I think we’re going to have to put him in the panic room for now.” He glances in the rear view mirror at his brother’s unconscious form. “We’ve gotta be cautious.”

“Oh, okay. Right, well, I’ll see you when you get here.” He’s waiting for her to say ‘peace out, bitches’ or something equally Charlie-like, but instead she says. “Good job, Sam. I knew you could do it.”

“Thanks for believing in us,” he says, and means it.

OoOoO

He's been driving for the best part of an hour when he suddenly finds himself pulling over at the side of a deserted road and vomiting until his stomach is empty and his windpipe is burning from the acid. He stands there for a few moments, recognising delayed shock when he sees it, and waits for the unnecessary surge of adrenaline to subside before he gets back into the car and sets off again.

After that, he makes the rest of the seven hour journey back to the bunker unbroken. He’s exhausted and desperately hungry for something other than slightly-stale road snacks by the time he gets there and he’s yet to decide whether he’s thankful or not that Dean hasn’t stirred the entire time.

He wonders whether he should have been a little more liberal with the truth when he told Charlie what had happened, because Dean looks like shit. There’s so much blood she’s going to assume the worst and God only knows what she’ll think when he tells her that the majority of it isn’t Dean’s.

He pulls the car into the parking garage and shuts off the engine. For a moment he considers patting the old car fondly like his brother would, in thanks for transporting them safely and without complaint. The ticking of the cooling engine fills the silence for a moment, before the door at the end of the chamber opens and Charlie hurries in. He climbs out of the car to greet her, stretching his back out before she reaches him and they hug.

It’s a brief embrace because they’re both anxious to get to Dean. She stands back as he opens the rear door and awkwardly manoeuvres his brother’s body out of the car. For a split second he experiences a violent flashback to bringing his brother’s corpse home in this way after Metatron had done his worst and he wonders if he's going to vomit again. He swallows down the horror by reminding himself that, this time, Dean is alive.

The blanket slips as he pulls Dean from the car, revealing the chains. He sees Charlie’s expression, before her eyes rise to meet his in question.

“Long story,” he says and is relieved when she simply nods. 

“Come on,” she replies, walking on ahead so she can take care of the doors for him.

He takes Dean straight to the panic room. Charlie has attempted to make the room a little more hospitable-looking, setting up the foldaway bed they keep down here up with Dean’s own bedding from his room. It still looks dark and foreboding, but he tells himself that it’s got to be moderately better than where Dean has been kept for over six months.

He doesn’t lay Dean on the bed yet though because there’s some serious cleaning up to do first.

“I’ll get some warm water and towels,” Charlie says, apparently reading his mind. 

“Thanks.”

It takes the best part of an hour, but they manage to get Dean cleaned up and into some fresh clothes. Charlie doesn’t question the fact that Sam refits the manacles when he’s done. He swaps the main cuff to his brother’s right leg so he can bandage the damage it’s caused to the left and attaches the chain to the anchor point in the floor of the panic room. Once they’re done, he lifts Dean into the bed and gently arranges the covers over him.

They both stand for a moment before Charlie slips her arm through his.

“He’ll be okay,” she says, her voice determined. He nods, wishing he had her confidence. 

“And so will you, when we get you fed and watered. Oh, and you get some sleep.”

He’s about to protest when it hits him how worn out he really is. Dean is secured so he allows Charlie to lead him out of the panic room.

“I’ll keep checking on him,” she assures him as they lock the door behind them. “I’ll wake you the _second_ I see him stirring.”

“Okay, but, Charlie? If he wakes, whatever he says or does, do _not_ go in there.”

She clearly sees how serious he’s being. “You got it.”

He eats the sandwich she makes and then heads to his room. He goes reluctantly, certain he’ll never be able to fall asleep, but as soon as he lies down he can feel the pull of sleep. He doesn’t kick off his boots though because he’s not expecting to rest for long, but he’s asleep before he gets chance to contemplate anything else.

OoOoO

He wakes, disoriented. Once he realises where he is, he’s up like a shot because a quick glance at the clock tells him he’s been asleep for _hours_. Dean’s surely awake by now, so why hasn’t Charlie come to wake him? He tells himself she wouldn’t have gone into the panic room, especially when he explicitly told her not to, but the worry still fuels his steps until he’s almost running. 

He rounds the corner and finds her sitting outside the room, reading a battered copy of _Speaker for the Dead_. She looks up at his sudden entry and cocks her head to one side, a knowing smile on her lips.

“You thought I’d gone into the room, didn’t you?” she says, closing the book and setting it down next to the chair.

He smiles back, abashed. “Sorry. I didn’t expect to sleep for so long.”

She shrugs, clearly not offended. “Truth is, nothing’s happened, so I figured I should just let you get as much sleep as possible. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“Hey, it’s okay." They both stand for a minute studying the sleeping form through the viewing hatch. "I just can’t believe we actually got him back.”

“Are you gonna try and wake him up?” Charlie asks. 

He’s contemplated this and he’s ready with his answer. He wants to try and wake Dean, obviously, but part of him isn’t quite ready for the fallout just yet. He needs to hold onto that flicker of hope – that he can get his brother back mentally as well as physically – for a bit longer.

“I’m gonna leave him be. He needs to rest – we don’t know what’s happened to him since he was taken, but the last few hours alone...”

“Is she definitely dead?” Charlie asks quietly.

Sam’s hit by the image of his brother repeatedly ramming the First Blade into Abaddon’s obliterated corpse. His stomach lurches all over again at the brutality.

“Yeah, she’s definitely dead.”

Charlie studies his face for a moment. “I’m not gonna ask you how you know,” she says wisely.

He nods gratefully. “Anyway, you go and take a break. I’ll take over things here.”

“Okay. Holler if you need anything.”

“Will do, and thanks again, Charlie.”

She smiles then goes to retrieve her book. “You’re welcome.”

Once she’s gone, he goes to unlock the heavy iron door. The clang of the bolts being drawn back would wake most people, but Dean doesn’t so much as stir. He steps into the room and walks straight to the bed. 

Dean’s breathing is deep and relaxed. He can almost imagine his brother’s just asleep – that he’ll wake and stretch his muscles, a grin on his face at the thought of breakfast. The lack of movement, however, indicates that he’s still unconscious. He contemplates calling Cas to see if the angel is surprised that Dean hasn’t come round yet. He knows what the answer will be though; Castiel hadn’t wanted to incapacitate his brother in this way for a reason. He’ll just have to be patient and also grateful that Castiel’s power didn’t kill Dean outright.

He stays for a few minutes, before he goes back out and locks up the door. Taking the seat Charlie vacated he settles in to wait.

OoOoO

Castiel calls several hours later. Sam wishes he was here in person so he could gauge the angel’s reaction when he tells him that Dean is still unconscious. As anticipated, Castiel can’t give him a time frame when Dean will come to, but he doesn’t seem surprised that it hasn’t happened already. He tells himself that’s a good thing. Castiel also informs him that he’s hidden the Blade. Sam’s disappointed that he’s not been able to destroy it, but this is preferable to knowing that it’s back in Crowley’s possession.

He goes back to waiting. 

Hours pass. Charlie offers to take over again but he declines, stating that while he’s not tired, he wants to stay close. Despite this, he finds himself dozing lightly in the chair when he hears the rattle of chains. It takes him a moment to realise that the sound is coming from inside the panic room and when it hits him, he’s on his feet in a flash.

Dean is sitting up with his back to the door. He’s slightly hunched over, but because Sam can’t see his face, he doesn’t know if his brother’s in pain or he’s just trying to make sense of where he is. He’s about to call Dean’s name when his brother turns and catches a glimpse of his face peering in through the small window. 

He’s unprepared when Dean suddenly swings his legs over the bed and leaps towards the door. His face is a mask of fury and he honest to God _snarls_ with outrage as he hurls himself at the door. Despite the solid barrier between them, Sam finds himself jerking back as Dean lunges toward him. At the last second, the chain pulls taut and Dean stumbles onto his knees. He’s still fighting though and even with his hands chained together he’s raging and swinging his arms, wanting to punch and kick and strike out at his enemies.

Sam watches all this, his heart sinking. Dean’s like a wild animal. There’s nothing in his expression that says he will be placated, but he realises that he needs to try. Instinct and weary experience tells him to stay on this side of the door.

“Dean? Dean, you’ve got to listen to me. You’re safe, man. You don’t need to fight anymore.”

If Dean can hear him, he gives no indication. He pulls at the chains violently, twisting and writhing until Sam fears he’s going to hurt himself. He’s debating whether to go into the room to see if he can get Dean to stop when he hears Charlie approaching. He’s not surprised – the din from inside the panic room will easily have carried around the bunker.

“Sam, is he okay?”

He wants to block her view, to stop her from seeing Dean as this snarling, uncontrollable beast, but it’s pointless. He steps aside and lets her look.

“I’m gonna go in,” he announces, desperate to do something.

Her head snaps round to look at him. “Sam, _no_.”

“I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to try and get through to him.”

“ _Sam_ ,” she says, aiming to sound more forceful, but fearful is closer to the mark. “At least wait until Castiel gets here. You said he was due to arrive any time.”

She’s right, but it’s hard to think with the racket going on. He glances back into the room as Dean finally stops fighting. He’s sweating and breathing hard and Sam knows it’s only a matter of time before he starts up again. His brother’s eyes are wild and unfocused and they’re flicking around the room, presumably looking for an escape.

“Okay,” he says reluctantly, realising that he’s never actually replied to Charlie, who’s still looking at him worriedly. “I’ll wait.”

OoOoO

Thankfully, Castiel arrives a couple of hours later. They’re experiencing another lull when he shows up, but it won’t be long before Dean starts up again.

“Has he said anything?” the angel asks after Sam has brought him up to speed on everything that’s happened since they last spoke.

“No. He’s just...” he stops, trying to find an accurate description that doesn’t dehumanise his brother, but fails miserably. “He’s like an animal, Cas.”

Castiel nods, but doesn’t elucidate his thoughts. As they’ve reached the panic room, the angel goes to look through the hatch.

“He’s calm now,” the angel states.

“Yeah. He goes crazy, then he stops for a while, like he’s building up his energy to do it all over again. I’ve tried to talk to him, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference and I promised Charlie that I wouldn’t go in there until you arrived.”

“A wise decision,” Castiel says, as he starts to unbolt the door. When Sam makes to follow him, he stops. “You need to wait out here.”

“Cas-”

“Sam, please. Just give me a moment.”

The sound of the door opening attracts Dean’s attention from where he’s pacing like a tiger. The chain won’t let him reach the door, but he lunges for Castiel all the same. From outside, Sam holds his breath as he watches the angel standing silently while Dean fruitlessly tries to reach him. Castiel’s head cocks to one side, then he turns on his heel and heads back to the door, accompanied by Dean’s howls of outrage.

Once the door is securely bolted, Sam turns his focus on his companion. Castiel is normally hard to read because of his limited emotional range, but right now he’s _radiating_ sorrow.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” the angel says. “I tried to speak to Dean, directly to his mind, but I got nothing back from him.”

“Okay,” he says, trying to process this information rapidly. “What does that mean?”

“It means Dean, or Dean as we know him... isn’t in there. Your animal analogy is unfortunately an appropriate one."

He feels like the ground has just shook and now he doesn’t know which way is up. He finds himself looking into the panic room again. In there is his living, breathing brother and yet Castiel is telling him it isn’t. What he’s looking at is a shell – a Dean-shaped vessel left behind after the crew has abandoned ship.

“So... so what does that mean? Is that it? Is he always going to be like this or is there a chance he’ll improve?”

He knows the answer before Castiel has even opened his mouth. Almost everything in their world comes without a manual or a rule book so it’s impossible to say how things will develop.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I wish I could tell you what you want to know. We’ll just have to give it-”

“Time?” he says flatly. “Yeah, I figured as much.”

He gives his brother one last glance, before heading back into the bunker to find Charlie and break the news to her.

OoOoO

After the showdown with Abaddon, Sam figured they’d be grateful for a bit of _nothing_ , but the fact is that he’s desperate for something to change. He can barely bring himself to acknowledge that several weeks have passed since they found Dean and the changes in his brother are absolutely zero. Either he or Castiel take meals down to the panic room. They’re eaten, like on some autonomic level Dean knows he needs these things in order to survive, but other than that he’s still exactly the same – quiet until there’s a glimmer of human contact, which send him into a snarling, raging creature with murder in his eyes.

Castiel continues trying to reach out to Dean’s mind, but the result is always silence. He tells Sam each time he’s tried, but they never go as far as discussing how long he’ll keep trying for and what they’ll do if this is it for Dean.

With Charlie and Cas around he tries to remain strong and positive. How many times have they been in situations that on the face of it looked hopeless, yet they lived to fight another day? Alone, he lets his walls crumble and for the first time since he carried his dead brother home after that fateful final battle with Metatron, he cries at the injustice of it all. 

In a sense, this seems worse. This time his brother is still alive, but he’s only really Dean Winchester in physical appearance. He finds himself thinking of Dean – _his_ Dean – and wondering what his brother would make of all this. He stops when he doesn’t want to confront the reality that Dean would expect to be put out of his misery rather than suffer the humiliation of being a mindless being – one who’s psychotically dangerous to boot.

He dreams of Dean often. Sometimes, it’s the Dean he witnessed in the warehouse, violent to the extreme and a threat to anyone or anything with a pulse. Other times, it’s the Dean that loves grilled cheese sandwiches and memory foam mattresses. This Dean shakes his head and looks at him with a sad, but fond exasperation.

_You know what you’ve gotta do, Sam and, hell, I know it’s the pot calling the kettle black, but you can’t save me, not this time. Don’t make me live like this, Sammy. You’ve gotta let me die..._

“Sam!”

He’s pulled from this dream by Charlie who’s shaking his shoulder urgently. The light spilling in from the corridor lights her face, and his heart lurches at the worry he sees there.

“What’s wrong?” he says before she can speak. He sits up so quickly he almost head butts her.

“It’s Dean. You need to come.”

Fuelled by adrenaline, he sprints, barefooted, toward the panic room. The door is open, but before he can think that Dean’s somehow escaped he realises that Castiel is in there, standing in front of Dean who is lying on the floor in the foetal position.

“What’s going on?” he asks. Now that he’s in here, he can see that Dean has his arms wrapped around his middle and he’s shaking violently. His eyes are closed and in front of his mouth is a small dark patch. Dean coughs suddenly, expelling yet more blood into the growing pool.

“Cas? What’s wrong with him?”

Castiel sighs. “It’s the Mark. As you know, it’s like an addiction. Dean needs to kill.”

“So this is what? Withdrawal?”

“Exactly. The removal of the First Blade would have been hard enough for him, but the weeks without actually spilling blood are now causing the Mark to react – a kind of self-preservation, if you will. If he wasn’t locked away, Dean would almost certain be killing now to stop the pain he’s experiencing.”

Sam pushes his hands through his hair. The memories of his dream rise to the surface – this isn’t the life that Dean wants and now he’s suffering too.

“So what do we do?” he asks, hoping that he can take the answer.

Castiel shakes his head. “I can give him something to minimise the pain, but other than that we just have to pray that Dean is strong enough to survive the withdrawal.”

“Jesus....”

“I know... And Sam, not that there’s a silver lining, but this may absolve you having to make any kind of decision about your brother.”

His airways constrict like they’ve forgotten how to take in air. He gets what Castiel is saying, but he can’t bring himself to agree just yet.

“Please... just do what you can for him.”

Castiel crouches down next to his brother’s prone form and places a hand on his head. There’s a small flash and Dean’s movements still. His facial features, previously contorted in pain, now go lax.

“Is he unconscious?” 

“Just sleeping.”

Sam nods. He makes a decision and bends down to lift Dean back onto the bed. Dean looks so unburdened like this that he’s overwhelmed with affection for his big brother. He realises that Castiel has gone to the door.

“I’m gonna stay with him,” he announces when the angel’s enquiring gaze falls upon him.

“Sam-”

“ _Cas_... If there’s a chance Dean could die then I don’t want him alone in here. I’m not gonna turn him loose and I want you to lock the door behind you so there’s no risk to you and Charlie. _Please_ , Cas,” he adds when the angel looks as if he’s about to protest this arrangement.

“Very well. I’ll keep checking on you.”

“Thanks.”

He listens to the sound of Castiel sliding the bolts into place. It never occurs to him that he’s now a locked room with a stone cold killer, unarmed. All he sees is Dean, alone and in pain unless he stays here with him.

“Hey, man,” he says, wanting to break the silence somehow. “Guess it’s just you and me, huh?” 

OoOoO

The next forty-eight hours pass in a blur. Dean progresses from coughing up blood to vomiting it in alarming amounts, like his insides are liquefying. Sam thought he’d have given anything for his brother to stop fighting and trying to kill them, but he never wanted this. 

When Dean’s awake, he doesn’t make eye contact, but neither does he try to attack. He’s wracked by sweats that Sam treats patiently with cold compresses until they subside. Sam talks to him endlessly even though his brother makes no indication that he can hear him. Every time Dean moves, the rattling of chains reminds him that this situation is beyond anything they’ve experienced before. On a couple of occasions, he comes close to removing the shackles, but he knows if he does, Cas will be in here to stop him. 

Castiel brings them both meals, even though for those first forty-eight hours, Dean makes no indication that he needs food. Sam manages to get water between his lips, but that’s it. He looks terrible. 

But despite the odds seeming unfavourable, Dean hangs in there. On the third day since he went into withdrawal, the flow of blood seems to stem. He stops shaking and when they bring him food, he starts to reach for it, like his appetite is gradually returning. Relieved that the danger seems to be over, Sam goes to change his clothes.

When he returns there’s something in Castiel’s expression that gives him pause. The angel gives very little away, but there’s just _something_ he can’t help but question. The default setting is that there’s something wrong, but that’s just not the feeling he’s getting from the angel. Dean is sleeping as far as he can tell.

“Cas? What’s going on?”

“I’ve just spoken to Dean again,” Castiel says, also glancing at the man on the bed. “To his mind, I mean. This time I got a response. Just one word.”

Sam realises now what he’s seeing in the angel’s face: it’s _hope_.

“What word did he say?”

“It was you, Sam,” Castiel replies, a half-smile on his lips. “He said your name.”

OoOoO

Dean’s catatonic state becomes the new status quo. Boosted by the knowledge that Dean is in there, _somewhere_ , he talks to his brother constantly. Castiel continues to try and speak to Dean telepathically. He doesn’t get anything back, but he reassures Sam that something is different now – like Dean’s mind has switched itself back on.

After several more weeks of this, Sam announces that he’s going to remove the chains. He’s prepared for objection from either Castiel or Charlie, but neither voice any, which is a welcome surprise. He insists that they keep the panic room locked and he assures them that it’s his decision, whatever the consequences.

He’s been taking all his meals with his brother, leaving only when he absolutely has to, so when Charlie’s points out that his shirt seems to be developing its own ecosystem, he figures that he should take the hint and go get showered. 

“Hey, Dean,” he says when he returns to the chamber after freshening up. 

His brother is lying on his side on the bed, his manacled hands out in front of him. Dean’s eyes are open, but they don’t rise to meet his, even when he stands directly in view.

“How about we take these off, huh?”

He’s conscious of the fact that Castiel is watching through the hatch, prepared to act if Dean suddenly puts him in danger. He wishes they were alone, but it’s a concession he’s prepared to make if it means the angel will let him take the shackles off. With no reaction from Dean, he crouches down and pulls out the piece of paper Cas wrote the incantation on all those weeks ago. He recites it carefully and watches as the cuffs fall away. Studying his brother’s face for any kind of reaction, he reaches up and massages Dean’s wrists for a while, smiling while he works.

“Come on, Dean,” he says encouragingly. “I know you’re in there, man.”

There’s the creak of the door opening and then Castiel steps into the room, wearing a concerned expression.

“What?” he asks.

“Dean’s speaking to me,” the angel replies and pauses, telling Sam that he’s probably not going to like what’s coming next.

“He says ‘put them back on’.” 

Sam glances at the discarded chains, then back at his brother. Dean is staring straight ahead, but a tear slips out of the corner of his eye.

“He says that he’s dangerous,” the angel continues.

“No,” he says firmly, crouching down so that he’s eye level with his brother. Dean doesn’t look at him, but he _knows_ that Dean knows he’s there. 

“You don’t need them, man. I wanted to turn you loose _weeks ago_ , but I didn’t because you weren’t ready, but you’re getting better, Dean. You need to believe that. You can beat the Mark, just like you did before because you’re getting stronger every day. You’re my brother, Dean and I’m not giving up on you, you hear?”

When he stops speaking, he turns to look at Castiel as he knows that if Dean responds, it’ll be through the angel. Castiel simply shrugs however, telling him that Dean has retreated into himself and that silence will be his reply.

The chains stay off.

OoOoO

Sam likens it to trying to bond with a traumatised animal. 

Days turn into weeks, but the forward steps are few and only small when they do happen. There have been no signs of violence since they first brought him here over two months ago and it’s been weeks since Sam removed the warded shackles without any disastrous consequences. Dean eats and sleeps and moves around the panic room, but shows no interest in trying to leave. In all that time he’s never uttered a word, even telepathically to Castiel, but he’s in _there_ , which is where the crucial difference lies in those early days.

Sam calls a meeting with Cas and Charlie almost three months to the day that they rescued his brother. He wants to let Dean out of the panic room, but he won’t do so without the others’ consent. He owes them that much since they’ve done so much for him and Dean recently. He’s relieved when they say yes, because they can see that the bloodlust has gone and that Dean’s recovery may plateau if they don’t. 

Sam’s elation is short lived, however, as even with the door left wide and his repeated reassurances and encouragement, Dean will not voluntarily step over the threshold.

“Come on, man,” he says for what feels like the hundredth time. It’s been almost a week since he opened the door and told Dean he could come out, but his brother is stubbornly staying put. Physically Dean’s starting to look healthier, but it's clear from his expression that he’s permanently on edge.

“What is it you’re afraid of?” he asks, and he’s trying to be patient, but some of his frustration bleeds into his voice as Dean stands as far away from the door as possible. His brother has started making eye contact, albeit briefly. Dean glances up, then returns to studying the floor. 

“It’s just the bunker, Dean.” He gestures to the door. “Come on. You can’t stay here forever.”

Another quick glance - possibly Dean’s way of arguing that he can and will.

“Okay, man, it’s your choice. I’m not gonna push you if you’re not ready.” He stands up and goes to leave. A final glance back confirms that Dean is staying put. He sighs and carries on out into the main part of the bunker. Charlie is on her laptop when he wanders into the room and sits down heavily at the table. She stops typing at his sigh.

“Still not coming out, huh?”

“Nope.” 

He shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment. Even though the situation with his brother has settled since those stressful events early on, he still can’t say that he’s sleeping brilliantly. As a result, ‘weary’ appears to be his default state at the moment.

“Thing is, I can’t exactly blame him,” he continues. “I mean, nothing’s changed. He’s still got the Mark and I told him that I wouldn’t let anything happen to him last time, and look how well that worked out.”

“Sam, you’ve gotta stop beating yourself up about that,” she says, closing the laptop and folding her arms on top of it before she continues. “And yeah, it’s understandable for Dean to be worried about it happening again, but Abaddon’s dead and the whereabouts of the Blade are only known to someone who would never put it back in Dean’s hands. He’ll come around; remember, at one point you thought he might be gone forever.”

She’s right. He can vividly remember how he felt when Cas first tried to communicate with Dean and got nothing back and he knows, back then, he’d have given _anything_ to be at the point they are now. Dean’s traumatised, so it’s unreasonable to expect his brother just to be okay with things, just because he says so.

“You’re right,” he acknowledges. “There’s no timeframe for Dean’s recovery. I shouldn’t be trying to rush things.”

“Did you make a decision about school?” Charlie asks, changing the subject slightly.

“Yeah. My place is on hold so I can restart the course in September... if things are okay, of course. They think I’m caring for a sick family member, so they’ve been really understanding, but there were only so many classes I could miss before it became impossible for me to pass to the next year.”

“You okay with that?”

He nods emphatically. “Oh, yeah. I mean, I _want_ to study, but Dean’s my priority and while things are still so up in the air I can’t think about school at all. This way is better for everyone. Speaking of which, I wanted to check that you’re still okay with us being here.”

“What? Of course, it’s okay,” Charlie replies in surprise. “This is still your home, Sam. It’ll _always_ be your home and you know, if you wanted to come back permanently I could move out...”

“No,” he says firmly. “We’ve got a new home now, and the plan is to get back there one day. Like I said, nothing’s changed with regards to the Mark. While Dean still has it he needs to be retired – we just need to be a little more vigilant than we were last time.”

“Well, until that day comes, this is your home, okay?"

OoOoO

He doesn’t rush back to the panic room. Part of him hopes that his absence will make Dean curious enough to leave the chamber, but he caves first and when he eventually returns, he finds his brother sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the far wall. He studies Dean for a moment before he joins him on the floor, their shoulders touching. For a second he thinks that Dean might move away from him, but he doesn’t and so they sit this way in silence for several minutes.

“I’m sorry for trying to push you,” he says eventually. “If you wanna stay in here, then that’s okay, honestly. You’re your own person, Dean. You’re nobody’s slave or captive. I just wanted you to see that you could come and go freely.”

He’s surprised when Dean nods sharply, his expression giving nothing away. He doesn’t go to get up though.

“Abaddon’s dead, Dean,” he says quietly, pressing his shoulder into his brother’s. “Don’t let her win.”

He gets up again and leaves the panic room, praying that he’s not overplayed his hand.

OoOoO

It takes a few more days, but eventually Dean braves it. Charlie’s gone out to buy groceries and Castiel hasn’t been back for several days, so the reduced numbers in the bunker might have been the catalyst. He’s reading the news on his computer when he catches a glimpse of movement and looks up to see Dean approaching hesitantly, eyes flicking around as if he’s expecting danger. His hand hovers on the laptop's touchpad as he waits, a smile growing on his face.

“Hey,” he says after a few more moments have passed. “Good to see you, man.”

Dean’s gaze finally lands upon him. His brother nods like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to be here before he comes to sit at the table.

“You want something to eat?” he asks. “I was just gonna make myself a sandwich.”

The response is a quick raise of the eyebrows – a ‘that sounds okay’. He goes to stand up.

“You wanna beer too?”

Dean’s shake of the head is emphatic. It’s clear he has his reasons for saying no, but there won’t be any explanation yet. He heads to the kitchen with a quick final glance at his brother, feeling somewhat nostalgic at the sight of Dean sitting there, like they often did when the bunker was their home, just shooting the shit between jobs.

When he returns with their lunch, Dean has turned the laptop to face him and is staring intently at the screen, utterly engrossed in whatever he’s reading. He jumps slightly when Sam puts the plate down next to him, but his attention isn’t diverted. It’s impossible not to want to know what he’s reading, but when Sam glances over, there isn’t anything completely obvious.

“Dean? You okay?” 

Finally, Dean turns. He shakes his head like he’s seen something he can’t quite believe and gestures at the screen. Sam looks, but he’s still not seeing it. He gives Dean a helpless shrug, who promptly rolls his eyes and calls up Microsoft Word. Into a blank document he types:

_The Cleveland Browns won the Super Bowl??? What the fuck???_

Despite the involuntary bark of laughter, he realises then that Dean is stunned by what he’s missed since he’s obviously had no contact with the outside world for over six months. He tries to imagine what that’s like.

“You want me to fill you in?” he asks, coming to sit next to Dean.

He gets another nod as his brother reaches for his sandwich and prepares to listen.

OoOoO

Charlie arrives back as he’s finishing up with his recap of salient events. She smiles warmly at the sight of the two of them at the table together and is about to leave them in peace when he calls her over. She puts down the grocery bags and goes to join them.

“I’m just catching Dean up with what’s been going on in the world while he’s been away,” he says, and he says 'away' so naturally it could almost be that Dean’s been on vacation. “Anything spring to mind that you can think of?”

While she’s talking he watches his brother. Dean is listening, but there’s very little actual eye contact going on. His best guess for his brother’s apparent awkwardness is embarrassment – Dean knows Charlie was here the entire time he was still under the spell of the First Blade and it’s likely that it’s that he’s thinking about, even though it’s clear Charlie doesn’t care.

“Hey,” she says suddenly. “Since we're on catch up, how about we marathon a little Game of Thrones tonight? You boys up for it?”

He glances at Dean, who smiles and nods. Silently, he thanks Charlie for encouraging a little normality.

“I think that sounds like a good plan,” he agrees. He watches as Dean returns to his laptop and types:

_Is Joffrey still a dick? Someone needs to finish his ass._

Sam glances at Charlie, who’s trying and failing to maintain her poker face.

“No spoilers,” she admonishes, before she quickly turns and goes back to the groceries she’d abandoned at the bottom of the stairs.

Dean gives him a look once she’s gone, a roll of his eyes that’s pretty much saying ‘Geeks, eh?’ He laughs in response and pats his brother on the shoulder, aware that he’s actually looking forward to this evening.

Dean eats with them at the table for the first time that evening and despite his brother’s muteness, it’s a relaxed affair. He offers Dean a beer and the response is once again an emphatic no. When the meal is over, they head for Sam’s room to watch TV together. He wonders again why they never got around to creating a communal living area, and he almost suggests it as they’re trying to figure out who gets his bed and who gets relegated to a chair, but stops when he remembers that this is no longer their home. 

He thinks about their house now, and wonders how it’s faring in their absence. Cas has been back to check on it a couple of times and he keeps up with the bills online, but with Dean’s projects abruptly halted he can only hope that time and the weather haven’t taken its toll and that it’ll be liveable once they eventually get back.

Charlie fires up the TV and after a short debate about where to begin their viewing, they settle down to watch. Sam glances over at his brother, who has assigned himself keeper of the beef jerky and smiles.

The first episode has barely been on a few minutes before, in typical _Game of Thrones_ fashion, people start to die bloody. As the violence gets underway, he feels Dean shifting beside him, like he can’t quite get comfortable. He’s just about to ask if he’s okay when Dean suddenly springs off the bed and goes crashing out of the room. The door bangs against the wall in his wake. A quick glance at Charlie confirms this wasn’t just Dean going to answer an urgent call of nature and then he takes off after his brother.

He knows where Dean will be. Despite the fact that during their occupancy they used the panic room almost exclusively to torture information out of demons, Dean will have retreated there, like it represents a kind of sanctuary for him. Still, his heart sinks when he sees that he’s right because Dean is sitting on the floor, back to the wall with his head in his hands.

“Dean?” he says gently, his approach cautious. 

It’s hard to tell what Dean’s doing with his face covered, but as he gets closer, he can tell that his brother is shaking. Thrown by this unexpected turn of events, he’s trying to work out what caused Dean’s sudden flight.

“Hey, it’s okay, man.” 

He crouches down and reaches out to lay a hand on his brother’s arm, but Dean flinches and makes a noise like the touch distresses him. He jerks back, almost overbalancing and landing on his ass.

“Okay, okay. Dean, do you want me to go?”

Dean finally looks up at him and nods. He raises his hands in a gesture of placation before standing up and heading to the door. 

“I’ll be out there, but do you, uh, want me to get you anything?” It suddenly occurs to him that Castiel has previously been good in situations like this. 

“Or do you want me to call Cas?”

He’s shocked by how vigorously Dean is suddenly nodding. 

“Sure, man. I’ll go call him now. You’ll just hold tight, okay?”

He heads back into the main part of the bunker so he can get reception on his cell. Charlie’s in the main room now. She opens her mouth to say something, but stops when she sees that he’s on the phone. 

“Cas,” he says, relieved, when the angel picks up. “Where are you?”

“I was actually heading back to see you. I’m about half an hour away now. I just passed through that little town that has the shop that makes those funny-”

“Cas, Dean needs you.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I don’t know exactly. He’d finally come out of the panic room – he’d even had dinner with me and Charlie and then all of a sudden he just freaks out again. He’s gone back downstairs and he wanted me to go, but then I offered to call you and well, yeah, please just get here, Cas.”

He acknowledges the slight pang of jealousy that Dean has clearly chosen whose help he needs.

“I’ll drive faster,” Castiel replies. “See you soon.”

He ends the call and meets Charlie’s concerned gaze.

“Sam?”

“I dunno. Hopefully, he’ll tell Cas what’s up.” He shrugs and gives her a humourless smile. “Guess I should have known it wouldn’t be plain sailing.”

OoOoO

Cas makes it in twenty minutes. He disappears straight down to the panic room after Sam puts him in the picture about what happened before Dean took off. It’s an agonising wait, but eventually Cas returns.

“He’s sleeping,” the angel announces. "He wanted me to come because he was worried that you might need my powers to restrain him."

"Your powers?" Sam frowns. “Why?”

Castiel comes to join him at the table. “The show you were watching, Game of Thrones? I believe it’s quite brutal.”

It’s a serious understatement, but he simply nods.

“Dean... Dean is concerned about how he might react in response to violence. He’s worried that it’ll feed the Mark and make him what he was before.”

Sam closes his eyes, already mentally kicking himself for not seeing what’s obvious now. All of this – _everything_ that has troubled Dean since he found his way back to himself, from the way he reacted to the TV violence to the refusal of alcohol – hasn’t been about being taken again. He’s scared about what he could do, what he could _be_.

“Shit, Cas. I’ve been so fucking _stupid_. I should have known Dean would be more worried about protecting everyone else.”

“You know better than anyone that Dean’s not exactly forthcoming with his feelings.”

“Still doesn’t change the fact that I got it wrong.”

Castiel makes his sympathetic face – one of the expressions he has perfected over the years of staying on Earth.

“You Winchesters will always be your own toughest critics. Dean will be fine and you’ve nothing to feel guilty about.”

“I just wish he would _speak_.” He feels like an asshole even saying it because it’s like he’s never satisfied with the progress Dean is making. “When our mom died, Dean apparently stopped speaking for a while, but he was just a kid then.”

He scrubs a hand across his face. “It’s just frustrating not knowing what he wants or how he’s feeling.”

He realises Castiel hasn’t said anything, but he has that thoughtful expression on his face.

“Do you want me to ask him?” he says.

Sam opens his mouth to say something, but stops. It makes sense since Cas can ask Dean directly, yet he’s hesitating because it’s such a personal thing and he’s not sure the angel has the necessary tact to handle what Castiel obviously views as a straightforward question. 

Then again, Dean and Cas share a bond that the angel himself has described as ‘profound’ and it’s Cas Dean has asked for now. His brother is also used to Castiel’s idiosyncrasies, so probably wouldn’t be offended by his bluntness.

“Fine, but don’t push him, okay?”

“Understood. I’ll talk to him in the morning.”

“Thanks, Cas. It’s really good to have you with us.” There’s a pause before he says, “So how are things elsewhere?”

Cas nods. “Quiet. Abaddon’s death seems to have put things back in order in Hell. Most of her supporters are either dead or have fallen back in line under Crowley. He’s instructed his demons to stay away from you both – even if he hadn’t I think they’d have done so anyway.”

He doesn’t clarify why and Sam doesn’t need to ask - the knowledge that one of them is bearing the Mark of Cain will be enough to keep them away. Those demons that lived after Dean’s rampage in the warehouse will surely have told tales about that night and if demons lie, they most certainly embellish. As much as Dean may hate it, he’ll be the stuff of legends. He pulls his thoughts back round to their conversation.

“And Heaven?”

“The same. The angels are satisfied with what they’ve got right now; Metatron remains locked up. Things are quiet.”

“Good.”

With the conversation reaching a natural end, it seems like a good time to call it a night. Cas’s room is made up for him, so they bid each other goodnight. Before he retires to his room, Sam heads down to the panic room to check on Dean. He’s sleeping, just as Castiel said, no doubt the recipient of the angel’s powers to aid his rest. He reminds himself that although the day hadn’t ended well, there _had_ been some real positives prior to that that he needs to focus on. Dean is making forward steps, and now he knows the real source of his brother’s fears, they can focus on fixing those too.

OoOoO

He’s eating breakfast when Castiel wanders into the kitchen the following morning. The angel looks like he never actually went to bed, and maybe he didn’t. He’s not sure if Cas’s borrowed grace means that he needs rest or not. When he’d first stepped out of his room he’d automatically gone to check on Dean until he’d realised that Cas was already down there. 

“Morning, Sam.”

“Morning. How’s Dean?”

Castiel pulls out the chair and sits down opposite. For a moment the angel appears transfixed by the cereal box on the table.

“He’s okay. He’s much calmer than he was last night.”

“Good. Did you ask him about the, you know, the not talking?”

“I did.”

“What did he say?” Sam asks, admittedly burning with curiosity.

Castiel cocks his head slightly in that way that says he doesn’t really understand humans at all. 

“He said he wants to speak, but he can’t remember how to.”

“What?”

“He said he doesn’t remember what to do.”

Sam frowns. What Castiel is saying doesn’t make any sense; people don’t just _forget_ how to talk.

“It must be some kind of psychological trauma,” he reasons, thinking out loud. “It’s a... a response to what’s happened to him. Like the aversion to violence. It’s like some kind of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“You’re probably right. I’ve told him that I might be able to help, but he’s worried about what might happen to him if I accidentally cut the green wire instead of the red one.” Castiel frowns. “I’m not sure if Dean realises that his brain doesn’t actually _have_ any wires...”

Sam smiles at the angel’s misunderstanding. 

“It’s okay. The fact that he wants to speak is a step in the right direction.” 

When he looks, Castiel has that strange half-smile on his face.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just good to see you being more positive about everything.”

OoOoO

As it is, he’s right to be more positive. Dean continues to spend more time with them in the bunker. He still refuses to drink and there’s no mention of TV, although he grins in delight when Sam presents him with a Three Stooges box set. 

Conscious of not missing his brother's unspoken communications, he becomes aware that Dean is uncomfortable every time he catches sight of the Mark of Cain. Dean's always worn his shirt sleeves rolled up, but he's constantly pulling on the right one as if he can't bear to see the scar on his arm. When he discovers Dean rummaging through their first aid supplies with no obvious injury to tend, he guesses what it is that his brother is trying to do.

"You want me to help?" he offers, gesturing for the roll of bandage Dean is holding. Dean looks slightly wary, but he hands it over anyway. 

With an expertise born of years of practise, he grips Dean's arm and begins to wind the bandage around it. After a couple of turns he pauses and looks up.

"This _is_ what you were going to do, right?"

Dean's eyes flick to meet his briefly before he nods. Sam covers the Mark completely and recognises the relief in his brother's expression once it's hidden. It's not a perfect solution by any means, but he's glad that he could read Dean right this time and was able to do something for him.

Always one for research, Sam also reads read up on mutism and PTSD and concludes that there’s no point trying to put any pressure on Dean to talk – he’ll do it when he’s ready. 

This finally happens one evening, when Dean has offered to cook for them all. He spends the afternoon finding a recipe, then presents Sam with a list of ingredients that he needs. Sam raises a quizzical eyebrow at Charlie as he passes, but he goes and purchases every item that Dean has listed.

While Dean is busy in the kitchen, Sam sits with Castiel and Charlie looking through some boxes that Charlie has stumbled across in one of the many store rooms in the bunker’s depths. The folders inside the boxes document more of the Men of Letters customs and the information makes for fascinating reading. 

They’re pulled from their studies by a loud ‘ _Motherfucker!_ ’ from the direction of the kitchen, following almost simultaneously by a loud crash. Sam glances at his companions and then they’re up and running to the kitchen, fearful of what they might find.

What they _do_ find is Dean shaking his hand as their meal decorates the floor around him.

“Burnt my hand,” Dean announces, his expression thunderous.

Sam doesn’t mean to, but he laughs. Maybe it’s the relief at seeing Dean okay or the realisation that his brother has just _spoken_ , even though he doesn’t seem to have noticed, but he _laughs_. Dean eyes him like he’s about to punch his lights out before the penny drops and his expression brightens. A quick glance at Charlie and Castiel indicates they’re as pleased by this turns of events.

“Wow,” Dean says after a moment, evidently forgetting about his burnt hand.

“Yeah,” Sam laughs. “Who’d have thought ‘motherfucker’ would be your first word?”

Dean grins suddenly. “Apparently that was my first word first time around as well.”

“So,” Charlie says, studying the mess on the floor. “Who’s for takeout?”

OoOoO

Now Dean is speaking again, it starts to become more and more obvious that it’s time to leave the bunker. Sam’s admittedly nervous about raising the suggestion, but he’s surprised to discover that Dean is completely receptive to the idea. So almost three months after Dean’s rescue, they’re on the move again.

The house is in better shape than Sam remembers it being. Inside though, it feels as if it’s been frozen in time on the day everything went to shit – there’s a note on the table that he’d written for Dean reminding him that trash collection was on a different day that week and laundry sitting next to the machine, waiting to be washed. The refrigerator is full of things in various states of decay, so the first order of business is scooping it all into a black plastic sack and tossing into the garbage can.

While he’s busy, Dean seems to be wandering around the house, his expression completely unreadable as he moves from room to room like a restless spirit. He’s not sure what his brother’s looking at, or for, but he gives him some space while he deals with the jobs that require his immediate attention.

He’s just finished changing the bedding in both their rooms when he realises that he’s not heard Dean moving around for a while. Trying to ignore his increasing heart rate, he goes to Dean’s bedroom window and looks out. He’s just starting to reach the point of panic when he spots his brother standing in the yard, near the trench he started digging just before he disappeared. When Dean doesn’t move after a couple more minutes, he heads down there.

He lets the door bang behind him and tries to make his approach as obvious as possible because Dean looks like he’s in some kind of trance. Evidently he _has_ heard because he starts speaking.

“I was out here digging when Dennis and Colin came by with the timber I ordered. I was actually enjoying the work because the weather was so good.” Dean pauses, a half-smile on his lips. His voice has a distant, dreamy-like quality to it. 

“I could actually hear you bitching at me to put some sunscreen on. Dennis asked me about the car, like he always did. We were just talking, having a break, then... nothing. Just before Colin whacked me, they did the black eyes trick so I knew exactly what they were.”

Dean’s story confirms his suspicions. When they first realised that Dean had been taken, their investigations led them to the discovery that the hardware store had made a delivery to the house at around the same time he was taking the phone call from Crowley. They’d gone to speak to the employees who had made the delivery, only to discover that they’d also vanished off the face of the Earth. 

Dependable, predictable, salt-of-the-earth Dennis Riley had apparently called the store not long after they’d left to make the delivery and said that he and his nephew were taking a road trip. They’d never returned the truck and Dennis’s distraught wife and Colin’s perplexed parents had, unsurprisingly, known nothing about it. As far as Sam’s aware, neither man has been seen since.

“I had no fuckin’ clue what they were going to do with me,” Dean continues. “Worst case scenario I figured I’d just end up dead in a ditch somewhere.” 

His face suddenly loses all trace of humour. “When I realised what Abaddon wanted with me and that she actually had the First Blade, I knew that I was fucked.”

He wants to say something about how she didn’t win in the end, but that would gloss over how much his brother had suffered in the meantime, and he’s not prepared to do that. He also wants to promise Dean that it’ll never happen again, but that feels like an insult too. He’s still trying to decide what to say, when Dean turns and flashes him a grin.

“I dunno about you, Sammy, but I’m pretty damn hungry. Hey, you reckon that Chinese place is still open in town?”

OoOoO

He contemplates asking Dean if he wants to make any changes to their rooming arrangements. After years on the road it’s second nature for them to share a room, but Dean gives him a strange look when he asks if he’s okay just before they retire, so he doesn’t say anything. In the morning, he also doesn’t tell Dean that he checked on him several times throughout the night.

Now that they’re back, they need to restock their cupboards. He suggests getting groceries delivered, but for the first time since they arrived back at the house Dean looks distinctly uncomfortable. He suggests it because he doesn’t want to leave Dean on his own, but it’s clear his brother would rather be left alone for an hour than have strangers coming to the house. 

He takes the car to the store and does the fastest grocery shopping that he’s ever done in his life. Dean is in the kitchen on the laptop when he arrives back from the store and he feels a little foolish that he was so concerned the entire time he was out.

“Need a hand?” Dean asks as he passes with his arms full of bags.

“Nah, it’s good. I’ve got it.”

“Charlie called while you were out,” Dean announces. “She was just checking up on us and inviting us for dinner next Saturday.”

“Oh,” he replies, “what did you say to her? Do you wanna go?”

Dean frowns. “Why wouldn’t I? Unless she’s planning on making that stew again.”

He laughs, partly because Dean’s spot-on and partly because it’s good to hear his brother’s sense of humour surfacing. 

The day is warm so Dean decides that he’s going to wash the car out front. He works with the radio on, humming along to songs he likes. Inside the house, Sam starts going through the mountains of mail they’ve accumulated, but every so often, he stops to watch Dean working. He hates that he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop because Dean’s doing _really_ well.

In fact, the only indication that anything is amiss comes in the flash of white bandage he catches every now and again – Dean’s insistence on keeping the Mark of Cain out of sight.

In the evening they watch TV together. Sam follows this brother’s lead on _what_ they watch because Dean is still adamant that he doesn’t want to see things with excessive violence. They both nurse sodas because alcohol is off the menu too.

Before long, a week has passed. Dean starts to talk about re-starting his jobs on the house. He’s quiet and brooding at times, but on the whole he’s doing better than Sam could have dreamed. He tells Cas as much when the angel calls him to check up on them.

“Seriously, Cas, I can’t believe it. He’s eating, he’s sleeping, he’s even starting to tackle jobs on the house.”

Through the window he watches Dean as he cradles the phone between his shoulder and his ear. This time Dean is working under the Impala’s hood. He’d asked his brother what he was doing, but Dean had shrugged and said he wouldn’t understand. It would, however, mean that the car wouldn’t require any serious work for a long time. At that point, he’d left his brother to it.

“He’s still covering the Mark, but he says he’s doing okay and you know what? I _believe_ him. He’s started to insist that I go back to school, says we need to resume normal life.”

“Is that what you want, Sam?”

“Yeah... I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t bothered about going back, but I’m only going to consider it when Dean’s ready.”

“It sounds like it’s going well,” Castiel says.

“Yeah,” he replies, glancing out the window at Dean once more. “I think it is.”

OoOoO

Dean doesn’t let up about school. He keeps on until eventually Sam makes a call to find out what his options are. Turns out, he’s going to have to make a decision sooner than he’d hoped as the new semester is about to start. Dean is adamant, however. After dinner, they sit outside and watch the daylight fading. 

“You’ve gotta go, Sammy,” Dean says, when they’ve exhausted all the small talk about stuff that doesn’t matter. “It’s what you want.”

“It’s not just about me though, Dean. I wanna do what’s right for us, and there’s no rush for me to get back there. If it takes years, then it takes years.”

Dean shakes his head, like he finds all of this really frustrating.

“But you need to make a life for _yourself_ , Sammy. I mean, what if something happened to me-” Dean holds out his hands to forestall any protest. “I’m talking a heart attack or something non-demon related, here. You can’t put your life on hold for me...” Dean glances over suddenly, like he’s checking how his next words will be received. 

“Just like I can’t do that for you. Sometimes there comes a time when you have to do what’s right for _you_. You hear me?”

“Yeah,” he says, not fully sure that he’s understanding what Dean’s saying or, more specifically, why he’s saying it now.

“So you’ll call tomorrow?” Dean asks, studying him closely. "Tell them you're coming back?"

He agrees, but mainly because it’s Dean that wants him to do it.

OoOoO

On his first day back at school, he’s on pins the entire day. He checks his phone repeatedly and grows edgy around the times Dean has agreed to check in, until he receives a call or a text from his brother to say he’s okay. His ‘weird mature student’ aura obviously intensifies when he’s forced to explain that he’d had to drop his studies for a full year to deal with an unspecified family emergency.

Despite the stresses, he knows he won’t regret coming back. Like Dean says, this is his chance to make a life away from hunting, to have a regular job with a wage that can support them without having to worry about where the money for their next meal is coming from. His contentment would be complete if Dean could find the same for himself.

He arrives home, but can’t immediately find his brother. From the entrance hall he shouts and gets a faint ‘Up here!’ 

When he reaches the top of the stairs, he discovers the door to the attic is open. Suddenly Dean’s head appears, upside down, a broad grin on his grime-covered face. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Sam asks, stepping over the obstacle course of tools and equipment that Dean has spread out on the landing.

“Putting in insulation, what does it look like?”

He laughs and shakes his head, but something feels wrong. Even though Dean’s not been injured, it feels like he should be taking it easy, given everything that’s happened to him and that they’re only just back in the house. He says as much and is greeted with a snort of derision.

“This attic insulation won’t install itself, Sammy. You wanna freeze your ass off in winter?”

“It’s only just the fall, Dean. You’ll have plenty of time to do it before winter. What’s the rush?”

Dean’s grin falters a little and he instantly feels bad that he’s obviously the cause. His brother is keeping busy, trying to _move on_ and he’s giving him shit about it. He huffs a laugh, wanting to make amends.

“Well it’s much appreciated, man, I’m sure my ass will thank you in the winter. So, yeah, I’ll leave you to it while I make a start on dinner. You want anything in particular?”

“Anything,” Dean replies. “Surprise me.”

They eat at the table, piled high with the mail that he’s still sorting through. Next to one of the stacks, he notices a list in Dean’s scratchy handwriting. He picks it up and studies it while he eats. It’s a list of jobs, but there appears to be a system in the way the list is set out in different coloured ink.

“What’s the colour coding for?”

Dean glances up from his own food and swallows before he responds.

“Red jobs need doing now, blue jobs can wait a while, but _do_ need doing, green jobs are optional and can be done whenever.”

He returns his gaze to the list. Three out of the seven red jobs are already crossed off.

“Seems like you’ve made a good start already.”

Dean shrugs. “I figured there’s no time like the present.”

He smiles, ignoring the niggling doubt that he can’t quite place because it makes no sense to be concerned. Dean keeping busy is a million times better than him sitting around brooding. He squashes the reservations he has when he realises that Dean holding up his glass for a toast.

“Anyway,” Dean says, “Here’s to moving on.”

He nods, and raises his own drink. “Moving on.”

OoOoO 

They return to the bunker the following Saturday to have dinner with Charlie. Cas has also been invited, but he can’t make it because he’s been called back to Heaven. Given his outcast status up there, he doesn’t want to refuse the invitation, so dinner gets a rain check. It’s entirely understandable, but Sam can’t help but think that Dean seems to have taken Castiel’s absence badly. He joins in the conversation, but his cheer seems a bit forced.

When they come to leave, Sam hugs Charlie first. They’ve always had a warm relationship – a big brother and a little sister close in age and affection. Dean has always seemed like the big, big brother – more mature and therefore a little more distant, a stance exacerbated by recent events. Tonight though, despite the setback of not having Castiel at their table, Dean embraces Charlie warmly and kisses the top of her head.

“Thanks for everything, Charlie,” he says tenderly. “Thanks for looking after Sammy – someone’s gotta if I’m not around.”

Sam frowns, because what the hell’s with Dean and all this fatalistic talk lately? Once they’re alone in the car he calls Dean on it, in as tactfully a way as he can manage without making his brother defensive.

Evidently not annoyed by the question, Dean shrugs, as best he can while he’s driving, and glances over at him.

“I meant when I was taken. And then after, when I was...” Dean stops suddenly and frowns. “Why? What did you think I meant?”

“I dunno,” he replies, now the one trying not to sound touchy. “You’re the one who keeps talking about heart attacks and stuff like that.”

Dean makes his _you’re being ridiculous_ face, which is almost always guaranteed to get his back up. He waits for the accompanying comment that will probably push them towards an argument, but in a move that surprises him and kills his irritation stone-dead, Dean says, “Sorry, dude. I guess all the crap with Abaddon and the Mark has made me think about stuff. I just want you all to know that I'm grateful for everything you did for me, you know, if I wasn't around to say it.”

Any response dries in Sam's throat. He feels frozen with fear and when Dean looks across at him again he obviously sees that.

“Dude, I’m not about to commit suicide or anything like that, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

The knot in his gut lessens a little. Dean’s so indignant that he’s got to be telling the truth. His brother’s still waiting for a reaction so he nods when Dean glances over at him.

“Okay, but I want you to talk to me about _anything_ , you hear? I’m your brother, Dean so talk to me, okay? If anything’s troubling you, don’t shut me out.”

“Okay,” Dean agrees. “I’ll tell you if there’s anything.”

OoOoO

He’s only been back at school for a couple of weeks when it becomes apparent that it’s going to command almost all of his attention. Despite the workload, he steps up to the challenge with enthusiasm as his anxiety over his brother starts to ease. After a particularly long day, they get takeout for dinner and watch the game before he decides to get a little work done on the assignment they were given this afternoon. Dean announces that he’s heading off to bed, leaving him to spread out his textbooks on the couch beside him.

He realises that Dean hasn’t gone and when he turns, his brother is studying him from the doorway, a smile dancing across his features. It’s the expression of a proud father, wistful, but filled with affection.

“Dean? You okay, man?”

“Yeah." Dean seems to come back to himself and he raps his knuckles on the doorframe. “Just wondering how I managed to be related to such a massive geek.”

He laughs, before grabbing a rubber band and firing it in Dean’s direction. “I dunno. I guess you’re luckier than you think, huh?”

“Bitch,” Dean says, turning and leaving the room quickly before Sam can get in his customary reply.

OoOoO

The following morning, Dean arrives in the kitchen just as he’s finishing up his breakfast. He’s been trying to read over the main points of his first class and it’s just one of those subjects that won’t quite sink in. Dean offers him some coffee, but he shakes his head.

“Sorry, man. I’ve gotta go.”

“You’re going early,” Dean observes. “Isn’t it tonight you’ve got to stay late?”

He’s surprised that Dean has remembered that he’s got a tutorial that will run until seven.

“Yeah. You okay fixing yourself dinner?”

Dean makes a face. “ _I’m_ not the one who thinks instant noodles qualify as real food, Sammy. I might not be crazy about vegetables, but I’m not in danger of starving.”

“Sorry,” he says. “Look, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

There's a moment where Dean looks as if he wants to say something, but instead he waves his hand and turns away. 

“Sure. Make sure you play nice at school," he says.

Normally he’d say something back because they’ve played this game a hundred times before, but his mind’s on school already as he hurries out the door, letting it swing shut behind him.

It’s a long day, but it passes quickly. He still thinks of Dean often, but they’ve stopped checking in with each other all the time now. They exchange texts at lunch, but that’s it because in the afternoon he has back to back classes. He grabs a snack and a coffee before heading into the evening tutorial, although it isn’t long before his stomach is making its displeasure known. He finds himself wondering what Dean’s having for his dinner, because despite his earlier ribbing, Dean is a pretty good cook.

He gets out of school a little after seven. His book bag is ridiculously heavy and the bus is late. Dean’s mentioned about him getting a car, but it’s yet another cost for them to take on while he’s studying and not working, so they've never bothered. Times like this though, it doesn’t seem like such a bad plan. It occurs to him then, that Dean didn’t offer to come pick him up, which he often does if he’s not doing anything else.

When he gets home, the Impala is parked up at the side of the house. The kitchen light is on, but otherwise the property is in darkness. He lets himself in and calls his brother’s name, listening carefully in case Dean is in the attic again. When there’s no response, he calls again, a little louder and more insistently this time.

He’s already walking through to the kitchen, big strides fuelled by a rising panic. The note is propped up on the table, facing the door so he’s unable to miss it. His name is on it in big, upper case letters – Dean’s handwriting, which is the only thing that’s stopping him from freaking the fuck out right now. He pulls out a chair and sits down.

_Sammy,_

_I hope you found this before you started thinking someone or something had taken me again. I’m sorry if I’ve scared you – it wasn’t my intention, but I didn’t know how else to do this. You’d have tried to talk me out of it and I couldn’t let you do that. I haven’t done anything stupid. I wasn’t lying when I told you I wouldn’t commit suicide, so get that idea out of your head. I’ve gone, but I promise you that I’m safe._

_Please don’t misunderstand me, Sam – as reluctant as I was to retire, I realised that actually this life is okay. We both deserve a life outside of hunting, but while I’ve still got the Mark, it’s just not safe. You know what the consequences are if someone wants to bring me and the Blade back together. I know Abaddon’s dead, but the potential is still there for some other douchebag and I can’t take that risk._

_So I want you to work hard at school, Sammy. Pass the bar and become the awesome lawyer I know you will be. You deserve a shot at your dreams. I’m not living my dreams, but at least I won’t be living my nightmares either._

_Sorry, Sammy. You know I love you and am really proud of you, so I don’t need to tell you either one. I also know you’ll be seriously mad with me right now, but I need you to trust me. I’ve put a lot of thought into it. I know you’ll try to track me down, but I need you to understand that this is for the best. Like I said, you can’t live your life for me, but I can’t live my life for you either, so I’m doing this for me. I’m sorry if that seems selfish. I think, in the long run, you'll realise that's it's better for you too._

_Dean._

His eyes are stinging with tears when he turns the page to reveal the second sheet. It’s Dean’s list of work that needs doing on the house and, crucially, all the red jobs are crossed out. He thinks back over the last few weeks – Dean’s work on the car and the house and the discordant note that played in his mind whenever he queried why his brother was so determined to get everything done so quickly, when for once, they had time in abundance. Dean’s insistence that he get back to school and his comments to Charlie about someone needing to take care of his little brother complete the picture that shows that Dean has planned this down to the last detail. 

Not sure what to expect, he dials Dean's number. He's expecting it to go straight to voicemail, but it starts to ring. His hopes are raised for a split second until he realises that it's ringing from within the house. He follows the sound until he finds Dean's cell in the drawer next to his brother's bed.

He calls Cas, but there’s no answer, most likely because the angel is still up in Heaven, mending fences with his brothers and sisters. Heartbroken, he calls Charlie next. He only says ‘hey’ when she answers, but she hears the tremor in his voice and asks what’s wrong. Then he’s reading the note to her on shaky breaths and when he’s finished, her response is so adamant that he isn’t about to argue with her.

“I’ll be straight over,” she says, “Just... hold on, okay?”

While he’s waiting for her to arrive, he checks the house over. From what he can see, Dean has taken a duffel, but very little in the way of his possessions. Probably his most disturbing discovery – aside from the fact that Dean hasn’t taken his beloved car – is that his brother has left all of his weapons behind too.

He checks their stash of fake identities next, but as far as he can tell Dean hasn’t taken a single one. They keep some cash in the house, but when he counts it, every single cent is still there.

He’s not sure how the next couple of hours pass so quickly, but suddenly Charlie is on their doorstep, her worried face peering in through the glass beside the front door. When he lets her in, she hugs him hard because he knows every inch of devastation is written across his face. They just stand there like that for a moment, both of them trying to absorb how things have gone wrong again so quickly.

“You okay?” Charlie asks as they separate.

He responds with a humourless smile. “Honestly? No.”

She gives his arm a squeeze, then hefts the bags she’s brought back onto her shoulder. He comes back to himself then, and offers to carry them for her. They walk through into the kitchen together.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks, knowing that she’s been on the road for almost three hours without a break.

“Coffee would be great thanks,” she says, her attention elsewhere. He realises that she’s looking at the note, now folded on the table.

“Feel free to read it.”

She places her bags on the floor and sits down at the table while he gets her drink. Once seated, she unfolds the note carefully and begins to read. The old house creaks, obligingly filling the silence.

“So you’re certain that this is genuine?” she asks once she’s done.

“It’s his writing and if he was being made to write it under duress, he’d have included one of our agreed code words so that I’d know he was in trouble. There’s nothing in that note that makes me think it’s a fake.”

He knows he sounds disappointed. Somehow, the fact that Dean has _chosen_ to do this is worse than him being taken again.

“I’ve checked the house over,” he continues, “it looks like a bag and a few of his clothes have gone, but he hasn’t taken much. He also didn’t take any of his weapons.”

Charlie acknowledges this news with appropriate graveness. 

“Okay, so I’m guessing you’ve gone over things in the last few days. No obvious signs that anything was amiss?”

“Nothing that _really_ stands out. He’s been a little off recently, but given everything that’s happened to him, I figured I just needed to cut him some slack. When we came to see you, did you think he seemed okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, but the way she draws out the vowel says there’s a ‘but’ coming next. “I thought he seemed down that Castiel couldn’t make it. And he was definitely more affectionate with me than usual. Thinking about it, in a way it seemed like...”

“A goodbye?” he finishes for her.

She nods. 

It’d be easy to linger on these missed opportunities, but Charlie’s clearly here to offer practical assistance rather than someone to commiserate with and the latter won't help them find Dean. He wracks his brains to think of anything that might be useful. Suddenly something occurs to him.

“I’ve seen Dean using the laptop a few times recently.” He’s already on his feet to go and get it because from an investigative point of view, this is _right_ up Charlie’s street. 

“Knowing Dean, it was probably for porn, but it might be worth checking it, in case he’s done any research here.”

“Okay,” she says nodding. “Let me at it.”

He boots up the computer and places it on the table in front of her. He loves watching Charlie at work - the way her fingers fly over the keyboard. Admittedly, Dean’s computer skills are reasonably limited so digging around in his search histories won’t really be a worthy challenge for someone of Charlie’s expertise. She types and frowns and then types some more.

“What’s up?” he asks, seeing her expression.

“He’s erased everything,” she says and they exchange surprised glances. "Not just 'delete Internet search history', he's wiped _everything_."

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, either Dean's suddenly worked out that ‘megabytes’ isn’t a special offer at Biggersons... or he had help.”

She spins the laptop around to show him the screen. It’s true – everything Dean might have been doing on the computer or looking at on the internet has been removed so there’s nothing there for them to see.

"Can you get it back?” he asks, still reeling from this discovery. It's yet another clue that indicates Dean hasn’t just disappeared on a whim.

“He's gone deep, Sam. I’ve tried a couple of things and it's not brought anything back, but there are other things I can do. You keep the coffee coming and I’ll get us some answers.”

Admittedly, it’s not as quick as she’d like. It becomes apparent that Dean _must_ have had help because he’s managed to bury everything he’s been doing on the laptop over the last few weeks and it takes her entire skill set to find it. Every setback though just hardens her resolve that _this one_ won’t become the one that got away, because the stakes are too high.

It’s the early hours of the morning when she finally finds something, and she re-reads everything a couple of times before she calls Sam over. For his part, he’s been calling anyone and everyone he can think of to see if Dean has somehow enlisted their help to get away. 

When Charlie's head appears around the living room door, he instantly knows that she’s found something from the look on her face. She disappears while he finishes his call to Jody Mills – the good sheriff hasn’t heard from his brother, but has offered her resources to help find him. He tells her Charlie might have something, and ends the call, but not before promising that he’ll let he know what it is – good or bad.

Charlie’s returned to her seat at the kitchen table, and she’s frowning at the laptop as she has been doing for the past few hours. The only difference is that she’s no longer typing.

“What have you found?” he asks, ignoring the lure of the screen for the moment.

“Okay. I’m pretty certain that Dean’s disappearance is completely by choice, although the technical side of things he’s _definitely_ had help with. Honestly? I think if it wasn't your laptop he'd have just shoved it in the microwave and got rid of everything that way.”

“Okay,” he replies, shelving his grief for now.

“Have you ever heard of somewhere called Fox Pines?”

He contemplates the question for a moment and then shakes his head. “No. Why? Where is it?”

“It’s _what is it_ really; Fox Pines is a secure psychiatric hospital about an hour away from here.”

He frowns because this is just getting weirder by the minute. “A psychiatric hospital? Who could Dean be visiting there?”

He glances at Charlie, just in time to catch the discomfort that flashes across her features.

“Dean’s not visiting someone at Fox Pines, Sam. He’s _in_ Fox Pines.”

He hasn’t got a response to that because nothing she’s saying is making any sense. Why the hell would Dean be in a psychiatric hospital? Charlie evidently can see he’s not convinced so she hits a few keys on the laptop to bring up the evidence she’s uncovered.

“When I finally managed to access Dean’s internet history, it seems he was researching mental health facilities – or more specifically, secure facilities. The places he was looking at are like the next step down from ones for the criminally insane so they’re still pretty hardcore; no voluntary cases, at any rate.”

“Right,” he says slowly, still not quite willing to believe _this_ is what’s happened to his brother. “So how would Dean have gotten in?"

“With this,” Charlie replies, spinning the laptop around to face him. 

It takes him a moment to work out what he’s reading. On the screen is a letter from an eminent – well, he assumes eminent from the trail of letters after his name – doctor, requesting the transfer of one of his patients to Fox Pines. The patient in question is one Dean Winchester, a thirty-five year old male with a long history of auditory and visual hallucinations, consistent with his diagnosis of severe paranoid schizophrenia.

“What the hell...” he says under his breath as he reads through the referral letter. 

_Dean talks at length about his experiences as a ‘hunter’ of supernatural beings. He regularly speaks about encounters with a range of other-worldly creatures, including both demons and angels and how he has been instrumental in averting the apocalypse. He is convinced that these beings can inhabit the bodies of regular humans. He can become agitated or even violent if he feels others are not taking him seriously. As a result precautions must be taken to prevent him from causing them injury._

_I am yet to find a suitable combination of drugs to reduce Dean’s symptoms and ease his anxiety, which can be extreme at times. The strength of his belief in these fictional events and creatures has not diminished even with an intensive combination of traditional therapy and pharmacological treatments. I am therefore of the opinion that Dean remains a danger to himself and others and would benefit from a more permanent place at somewhere such as Fox Pines._

He stops reading and looks across at Charlie. 

"I've never heard of this doctor. We need to find him."

"I don't think there's any point." She waves a hand towards the letter. "I looked him up and he does exist, but he's almost certainly never met Dean given the timeframe he's claiming to have worked with him, so we've got to assume that whoever helped Dean wipe his internet searches also helped him forge the necessary documentation to get into Fox Pines."

He nods. It makes sense. Come to think of it, it's not the first time they've done something like this. 

"I'll just have to go there myself then," he says resolutely. He glances at his watch - _one AM_.

"Would they just tell you if he's a patient there though?" Charlie asks.

He contemplates this for a moment. If Dean's gone this far to cover his tracks then chances are he'll have made it clear to them that he's expecting them to respect patient confidentiality.

"If this doctor is fairly eminent, then there's a chance the staff at Fox Pines might have heard of him or even met him so I don't want to turn up posing as him, but what if I turned up as another doctor or a research student that's got a letter from him authorising access to his previous patient?"

"It's worth a try," she says, nodding thoughtfully. "If we can forge you the necessary credentials. Which, of course, we _can_."

He smiles, feeling a flicker of hope for the first time since he walked in the front door and found his brother gone.

"Let's get to work then."

OoOoO

His positivity is temporarily derailed when he calls Fox Pines in the morning. As expected, the administrator won't confirm if they have a patient there by the name of Dean Winchester and when he explains why he's asking, she advises that he'll need to email the necessary documentation through to the hospital and someone will call him back in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. He has to restrain himself from losing his shit and telling her he can't possibly wait that long. Instead he thanks her and leaves his cell phone number. Fortunately, he receives a call back sooner rather than later and, even more fortunately, he's cleared to visit the hospital the following day.

At 9:27 in the morning, he's waiting outside the gates of Fox Pines Psychiatric Hospital, dressed in smart slacks and a shirt. He buzzes the intercom and waits for a voice to come on the line, to which he then gives his cover story. The gates open and he navigates Charlie's car up the driveway, following the signs around to the visitors' parking lot.

The main building is clearly old, but immaculately maintained within impressive grounds, which almost makes it possible to overlook the barred windows and heavy security presence. There's another intercom at the door, which he presses and repeats his name into before he can gain admission. He's greeted at the door by a white uniformed orderly who shows him to a small waiting area and advises him that Dr. Beaumont, Fox Pines' head physician, will be along shortly.

While he waits, he studies his surroundings, which are as carefully kept as the outside promised them to be. The place has a bright, neutral feel to it and given his knowledge of what usually becomes of the mentally ill who have committed no crimes, he knows this hospital is only for crazy folk with rich relatives, or excellent insurance plans. He wasn't aware that his brother had either, which adds to the big pile of strange things that he doesn't understand right now.

His thoughts are interrupted by the door opening, admitting a short, balding man who offers a smile as their eyes meet. He can't miss the quick appraisal the doctor gives him.

"Mr. Crane?" he asks. "I'm Dr. Beaumont."

"Please, call me Steve," Sam replies, standing and shaking hands.

"If you'd like to come to my office," the doctor says pleasantly. They walk down the corridor in silence, interrupted only as they pass through a series of locked doors. If it comes to it, breaking Dean out of here won't be easy.

Suddenly the decor changes. The walls are now oak panelled, decorated with a series of matching fresco paintings. The doors are also oak with brass fittings and at the end of this corridor they reach a door that proclaims that it is Dr. Beaumont's office. The doctor swipes his security card one final time and they're inside.

"Please, have a seat, Steve. Coffee? I'm having one."

"Coffee would be great, thank you."

He's expecting the doctor to put a call into his secretary, but instead the man moves to his sideboard where he has a coffee maker and a small tray of cups and other coffee making implements.

"As fabulous as my secretary is, I always prefer to make my own," he says with a smile as if he's read Sam's mind. "Cream? Sugar?"

"No thank you. Black's fine," he replies, somewhat disarmed by the good doctor's friendly, down to earth manner.

Once their drinks are made, Dr. Beaumont takes the seat behind his desk, the leather creaking obligingly as he settles into its folds.

"Now, Steve. Dr. Fletcher tells me you're interested in my newest patient. I believe you're doing a research project on schizophrenia?"

He takes a sip of coffee to prepare himself mentally. Hopefully this conversation isn't going to go into too much detail as a mere twenty-four hours research will expose his ignorance on the subject pretty quickly.

"Yes. I'm not sure of the specific aspect that I'm wanting to study yet, but Dr. Fletcher had told me that Mr. Winchester was a truly classic case and worth interviewing for my research."

Dr. Beaumont smiles benevolently at him. "Well, I certainly wouldn't disagree with my esteemed colleague about the nature of his patient's condition. Although with symptoms as severe as the ones Mr. Winchester experiences, one might wonder if there's some kind of genetic component." Still smiling, the doctor fixes him with a meaningful look.

"I'm always interested to meet my patient's family immediate family. You know, parents... _Siblings_."

Sam waits a beat in case he's misinterpreted the situation, but it's clear from the doctor's somewhat amused expression that he hasn't.

"How did you know?" he asks eventually, wondering how long it'll be before security is called.

"Your brother," Dr. Beaumont replies simply. "He told me you're not convinced about his diagnosis and that you'd probably try to come and talk to him about his agreeing to come here."

_You have no idea_ , he thinks. Instead, he forces a smile. "That's not strictly true - I want the best for Dean, wherever that may mean he needs to go." He looks away for a moment, then forces himself to meet the other man's gaze. 

"I love my brother, Dr. Beaumont. He _does_ need help and I want him to get it. I just don't want him to think that he has to do it on his own."

The doctor nods. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but why the charade, Sam? It is Sam, isn't it?"

"Yes." He sighs. "Dean can be very determined and since he'd have guessed my feelings on the matter, I thought he might not have agreed to see me. He won't listen to reason even when it's clear that he hasn’t thought something through."

"And what is it you think that he's not thought through? Being transferred here or leaving his original doctor's care?"

He makes a split second decision about what he'll say next. Maybe it's being challenged or the doctor's attempt to make this more about him than Dean, but he's going straight for the kill. He'll have to deal with the fallout later.

"You do realise that the referral from Dr. Fletcher is forged, don't you? Dean's never received any psychiatric care, let alone from him."

Dr. Beaumont's expression isn't the surprise or concern he's expecting at this news. Instead the other man smiles sympathetically.

"Sam, you don't think I'd just accept a patient turning up with a letter from another doctor do you? I've spoken to Dr. Fletcher at length about the work he's done with Dean. I know Dr. Fletcher well since we work in similar fields, so if it's a forgery, then it's an amazing coincidence because he'd planned to refer Dean here anyway."

He's stunned into silence because what the fuck does he say to _that?_ The pile of things that don't add up is now so high that it's threatening to topple and crush him beneath its weight. When he doesn't respond, Dr. Beaumont evidently decides to throw him a bone.

"I can understand your concern for your brother, Sam and frankly having a supportive family member can be extremely helpful to a patient's treatment. If it eases your concerns any, Dean has not refused to see you, but we _do_ ask that patients are given at least two weeks to settle in before they receive any visitors."

He's opening his mouth to protest when the other man holds up his hand. 

"I understand your frustration, Sam, I _do_ , but Dean has accepted and agreed to this, so I'm afraid the matter isn't up for discussion and I hope you can respect that. I _will_ say that Dean is settling in, and I think he'll do well here, given time and appropriate treatment."

He nods mutely.

"You're welcome to call and if I'm available then I'll happily update you as to how Dean's getting on."

He's about to make his excuses and leave when something occurs to him.

"Doctor, when you say 'treatment' what exactly will you be doing with my brother?"

Dr. Beaumont settles, like he's more comfortable now the potential source of conflict has been resolved. "Well Dr. Fletcher felt like Dean's current medication was no longer working as well as they had previously, given the strength and frequency of his recent hallucinations, so we need to explore other drug options. We'd do that alongside more traditional 'talking' therapies."

"And these drugs, are there side effects?"

"There can be, particularly for patients who are on them long term."

"Such as?"

"Tremors, muscle spasms, and there can be an increased risk of more serious conditions such as diabetes and heart problems."

Evidently the doctor sees the horror in his expression. "These are not a certainty and if we can get Dean on a reasonably low dosage then he shouldn't have any problems."

He has no say in the matter, so it's pointless kicking up a fuss now. The likelihood is he'll have to break Dean out, but for now it makes more sense to play along and _not_ get himself banned from the premises. 

"Will you tell Dean I was here?" he asks, "and when the settling in period is up, then I hope he'll agree to me coming to see him."

The doctor nods. "I'll tell him."

With nothing else to say, he leaves. As he's heading back to his car, he scans the barred windows in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of his brother's face, but there's nothing.

OoOoO

He relays everything he's learned to Charlie once he's back at the house. He thinks he hasn't left anything out, but it's hard to be sure with the creeping sense of helplessness that blankets his mind, leaving him unable to focus properly. 

Once he's finished, he studies her expression in the hope that he'll find the answers there.

"So what do I do now?"

Her returning gaze says she's trying to gauge how well her answer will be received. 

"Honestly, Sam? I think you should get back to school and wait out the two weeks."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. You need to talk to Dean and the only way you're gonna do that is being allowed through the door when they say so."

"But what if Dean thinks I'm not coming for him?" He pictures Dean's face when his brother realised that he hadn't tried to bust him out of Purgatory and that's not happening again - not on his watch, anyway.

"Sam. You're forgetting that this is Dean's _choice_. No one's taken him and forced him into Fox Pines against his will. Finding him wasn't exactly easy and the fact that this doctor is saying his referral letter isn't a forgery means however he's done it, he was determined to make them take him."

She's right and although he doesn't like it, he's not about to take it out on her when she's simply stating facts.

"I just can't believe this is happening," he mutters, his head dropping into his hands. "When the hell will we ever have lives like regular people, huh?"

Charlie gives him a sympathetic smile. "Yeah, your luck definitely sucks worse than most, fella."

He takes her advice. He's not sure how he's able to focus on school, but he does and in a way, it's the best thing he could do to make fourteen days pass as quickly as possible. He phones Fox Pines every other day, but is told very little aside from the fact that Dean is fine and appears to be responding well to the new medication Dr. Beaumont has recommended for him.

Finally the day arrives when he can return to the hospital. He's nervous as he passes through their series of security checks - it borders on prison visiting in terms of what he can and can't do and what he can and can't bring in for the patient he's here to see.

Unlike prison visiting, however, he's the only one here. An orderly who's a couple of inches taller than himself takes him through to one of the interview rooms. It's furnished with a couple of sofas rather than a table and chairs, presumably in an attempt to make it look homey. The wall of one-way observation glass destroys the illusion however.

He asks the orderly if his conversation with Dean will be observed or recorded and is told no, but he's not entirely convinced that the guy's telling the truth. Surely this would be a _perfect_ opportunity for them in their quest to understand why Dean's as fucked up as he is?

The orderly leaves after telling him that Dean will be along shortly. His nervousness swells, reaching a crescendo when the door opens again and his brother steps into the room.

The first thing that hits him is that Dean doesn't really look like Dean. His brother rarely dresses in anything other than jeans and plaid, but he's here now in grey sweats and a matching hoodie, his feet encased in honest-to-God _slippers_. He clearly hasn't had a shave since he arrived at Fox Pines as his face is sporting the beginnings of what could be a pretty impressive beard and his eyes, when they rise to meet Sam's, look ever so slightly unfocused. The _meds_ , he thinks.

Heart pounding, he can't decide whether he wants to hug Dean or punch him. His brother removes the need to make a decision when he sits down on one of the sofas, leaving him to mirror the action on the remaining seat.

"Hey, Dean," he says, his voice almost a conspiratorial whisper in case they're being observed. "How you doing, man?"

Across from him, Dean sighs. He looks seriously unhappy. "Why've you come, Sammy?"

"Are you kidding me?" he replies, "What? You think I'd just abandon you in here?"

Dean frowns. "That's kinda the idea, Sam. I'm sorry I didn't give you the chance to arrange a going away party for me, but it's my choice to be here. I thought the note made that clear?"

"But you don't need to be here!" he hisses furiously. "You haven't got a mental illness."

Dean smiles laconically. "That lady doctor at Glenwood Springs thought I did."

"That lady doctor was a hallucination, Dean!"

"Yeah, that kinda proves my point, doesn't it?"

He looks away, having easily resolved his hug or punch dilemma. He realises then that Dean's pushing him to lose his temper, presumably so that he either chooses not to come back or the staff here ban him from visiting again. He takes a breath and reins in his anger.

"I'm... I'm just at a loss, Dean," he says wearily, throwing his hands up. "We were back at the house, picking up where we left off. I just don't understand why you'd do something like this."

"And I know you probably won't believe me, but I _am_ sorry, Sam. I wasn't lying in the note; I was good with being retired, but this 'living like regular people' gig is impossible because we're always going to be looking over our shoulders and I don't want that - for either of us." Dean stops and grips his right arm, his gaze fixed on what lies underneath the material of his hoodie. " _This_ means that we're never going to be safe. Or free."

"But the Blade's hidden."

"Yeah?" Dean says, rounding on him angrily. "It was last time too, but we still ended up... Well, where we did. It's not safe, Sam. You saw what it made me, and trust me, Abaddon wouldn't have stopped with demons. She wanted to turn me loose on _people_ , Sam."

Dean looks up at him now, his gaze desolate. Finally, he's seeing his brother's deepest fears, but what can he say in response? Dean's already had to experience them and while he's still in possession of the Mark of Cain there's no promise that he won't ever have to again. He closes his eyes.

"But surely you don't think this is the answer, Dean? They're going to drug you because they think you're crazy. You’re wearing _slippers_ for fuck’s sake!"

"Hey, don’t hate on the slippers. And drugs? Drugs sound pretty good to me. The meds will help me keep a lid on the urges-"

" _Fine_ , so we'll get you some meds. You can come back to the house and take them _at home_."

" _Sam_." Dean says firmly. "I'm staying here. I'm out of harm's way and it's what I want."

"You know you won't be able to drink in here?" he snaps and _Jesus_ , if that isn't clutching at straws.

"Yeah, you always said that I needed to cut back. Didn't you call me Bad Santa at one point?" Dean's expression softens momentarily. "I promise you, Sammy, it's okay here, really. This is the best thing for both of us, I swear."

"On that note, how exactly did you get _in_ here?"

Dean's eyes shift furtively. "I called in a debt. Long story, ancient history."

When Dean says this, it usually means someone owes him for something he did during the years Sam was at Stanford. It adds to his frustration because Dean's clearly not for sharing.

"Yeah? So this doctor's way of saying thanks is to allow you to be pumped full of dangerous drugs that you don't even need?"

Dean rolls his eyes, evidently tired of this conversation. "Once again, Sam, this is _my_ choice." His brother suddenly fixes him with a look that borders on glacial. "If I remember rightly, you were _very_ vocal when you felt I hadn't respected _your_ choices. And I'm warning you now - do _not_ make contact with Dr. Fletcher. He's _helped_ me, regardless of what you think."

Yet another subject of conversation has reached a stagnant conclusion. Dean's correct in that he should be allowed to make his own choices - after half a year as Abaddon's captive where his basic right to liberty was taken away from him, it's the least he deserves. _This_ just doesn't seem like a very good solution. With that in mind, something occurs to him.

"Okay. I get _why_ you feel like you need to be here, but what if we found a way to remove the Mark-"

"Jesus, Sam, will you _listen_ to yourself? We've looked everywhere."

"Just hear me out, Dean. If we could find a way to remove the Mark, would you come home?"

Dean's still shaking his head in despair, but when he sees Sam's intense stare he rolls his eyes and sighs, evidently deciding to humour him. 

"I guess so, yeah."

This is good. "Okay, what about if we find a way to destroy the Blade?"

His brother's expression clouds over instantly. "Oh, no. _No_."

"What? Why?"

"Because when you rock up here a week from now and tell me the Blade's gone and it's all good, you think I'm gonna believe you?" He touches his arm again. "At least I'll _know_ if this is gone."

Stung by the accusation that Dean thinks he'd deceive him just to get him out of here, it takes a moment for him to respond.

"Okay, so the focus is on getting rid of the Mark?”

"If you wanna put it like that, yeah, but you’re not quitting school to go on these fool’s errands, Sam because we both know that there’s no cure out there. And I was serious when I said that you needed to pass the bar. Promise me, you won’t fuck things up at school because of me.”

“Fine.”

“ _Sam._ ”

“I promise, okay? I’ll stay in school, but when I find a cure, you’ll walk out this door with me?”

Dean studies him for a moment, then nods. “Those are my terms, Sammy. While I've still got the Mark, I'm staying here."

**End of Part Two**


	3. Part 3

_THEN_

Sam mentally plays back his visit with Dean again and again. It’s been several days since he went to Fox Pines to try and talk some sense into his brother and he’s still struggling to come to terms with Dean’s insistence that without a cure for the Mark of Cain, he’s staying put.

His phone starts to ring. Castiel's name is flashing on the screen - _finally_ \- returning the many messages he's left for the angel over the last two weeks.

"Sam. You've called - lots of times it seems. Is everything okay?"

He wants to yell, _where the fuck have you been_ , but he doesn't because that's unfair. Cas has passed on many chances to get back into Heaven's good graces because he was helping them. Now they've finally extended the olive branch, it's understandable that he's wanted to devote his time to healing that relationship, especially when he obviously thought the Winchesters were in a good place themselves and he was free to go.

He explains about what Dean has done. He wonders, if Castiel still had all his powers, would he ask the angel to just beam into the hospital and then beam back out bringing Dean with him. Prior to his visit the answer might have been yes, but now he can see that it wouldn't do any good. Dean is set on staying and forcing him out would probably result his brother attempting something even more drastic. 

"So what can I do to help?" Cas asks when he's finished bringing the angel up to speed.

"Visit him. Talk to him. Tell him we'll find a way to remove the Mark, but he doesn't need to stay in there while we do it."

"I'll try," Castiel replies.

"Thank you," he says, glad to have reinforcements. "So how are things in Heaven?"

"They're okay." Cas sounds positive for the first time in this conversation. "My brothers and sisters are starting to pull together to bring peace after all the in-fighting. They've also decided that Metatron should finally pay for his crimes."

Sam's dreamed about this day a thousand times, but now all he can think about is how any answer about removing the Mark will disappear with the scribe's death. He explains this to Castiel, who acknowledges his concerns.

"I’ll speak to Hannah, although the decision isn’t solely hers. She believes in democracy, Sam. I'll see if they'll let me speak to him one last time," the angel says. "Although we have to be prepared for the fact that he _might_ not know anything and that he's just trying to save himself."

"I know. Look, let me know how soon you can get here and I'll fix up a visit for you at the hospital. And thanks, Cas. I really appreciate it."

OoOoO

He discovers that although the hospital talks about the benefits of supportive family members, they prefer them to be supportive _from a distance_. When he calls to try and arrange a visit for Cas, they explain that it will have to be at the expense of his own visit as patients are only allowed one visit a week. He almost says something because frankly this is _insane_ , before remembering that he needs to play nice for the moment. Through gritted teeth, he thanks the admin and tells them that will be fine.

Although he wants to see Dean again, to check his brother is okay with his own eyes, he also wants someone else to appeal to Dean and get him to see sense. He calls Castiel and tells him when and where he needs to be. Cas promises he'll try to get through to Dean, and he'll let Sam know how he gets on once he's been. 

With little else to do, he throws himself into his school work. It's difficult to concentrate, but he forces himself to focus because Cas is going to talk to Dean and everything will be okay, so there's no point fucking things up at school. Plus, he’s promised his brother that he won’t neglect his studies while he looks for a cure.

He’s researching references for an assignment when he hears the sound of a car on the driveway. A quick glance out of the window confirms that it’s Cas’s Pimpmobile and he wonders for the millionth time what has possessed the angel to keep the vehicle, which is high on gas consumption and low on aesthetic appeal. 

He’s at the door before Cas has turned off the engine and he’s trying to gauge the other man’s expression, even though the angel is virtually impossible to read most of the time. Giving up, he follows Cas through into the kitchen, resisting the urge to subject him to the Spanish Inquisition – at least until he’s sitting down. He squashes down his disappointment that Dean isn’t with him, because it was a long shot, no matter how badly he wanted it to happen.

“So?” he asks. “How is he?”

Castiel nods. His expression goes thoughtful as he recalls the details of his visit. “He’s okay; it seems like a nice place.”

Sam frowns. He’ll let that one go for the moment, but it’s hardly what he was hoping Cas would say.

“Did you talk to him about what the hell he’s doing in there?”

Another nod. “I did, but you know better than anyone how determined your brother can be if he wants to do something. He told me what he says he’s already told you – that he’s staying there unless you can find a way to remove the Mark.”

“Yeah,” he says, sighing in frustration. “I know. I appreciate you trying, Cas, and at least he realises that none of us _want_ him to be in there. Maybe if he sees that no one’s gonna help him maintain this crazy charade then he’ll see sense.”

Cas doesn’t offer any reply. He almost thinks he catches a flicker of hesitation there – like the angel is about to say something, then changes his mind at the last moment – but he doesn’t ask him what it is.

“So did he say anything to you?”

“He said the food’s not bad.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I meant anything _useful_.”

Castiel’s expression is apologetic. “I’m sorry, Sam. I know you wanted me to get him out of there...”

“Hey, it’s okay, _really_. I just appreciate you trying.”

OoOoO

Turns out, it’s not okay. Not fucking okay, _at all_. He discovers this the following Sunday when he goes to visit his brother. Dean still hasn’t had a shave so his beard is now moving into mountain man territory and frankly, he looks _terrible_. Their conversation lurches from stilted to non-existent. Dean sits opposite him, eyes heavy-lidded and he’s blinking so slowly, each time his eyes shut Sam’s not sure they’re actually going to open again. It stokes the fires of his anger, which is a dangerous thing he knows, but the touch paper is already lit.

“Dean? _Dean!_ ”

Dean fixes on him eventually, but he still shakes his head in dismay. “Look at you, man. You’re a mess! I mean, have you even looked at yourself in the mirror recently?”

Dean sits up a little straighter. He’s aiming for indignation, but it’s like he can’t quite nail the look.

“Wow, thank you, Sammy. If I’d known you were going to be this much of an asshole I’d have told Cas to come back.”

“So how _was_ your visit with Cas? I’ve gotta hand it to you - you seem to have won him over with this whole locking yourself away thing.”

“Yeah? You ever think maybe he’s just being supportive.” Dean shakes his head and huffs a humourless laugh. “It’s not like I could have asked you to ward the place for me.”

He stops, frowns, works back over what Dean’s just said.

“What? _Wait_. Cas helped you ward the hospital?”

Dean nods with the hint of a smile on his lips. It’s clear that he’s relishing the opportunity to get back at Sam for the earlier digs about his appearance. 

“He did. Plus he re-carved the Enochian sigils onto my ribs. Seems like being run through by douche-a-tron messed them up, but they’re good now.” Dean pats his chest for effect. “ _Supportive_ , Sammy – like a friend should be. Or a brother.”

They glare at each other for a moment. Sam looks away first.

“Whatever, Dean.” He gets up to leave. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll see you next week.”

OoOoO

Once he’s in the car he dials Cas’s number, unable to decide whether it’ll be better or worse if the angel actually answers.

“Hey, Sam.”

“You lied – or, or you didn’t _lie_ ,” he corrects himself, “but you didn’t tell me everything about when you went to see Dean.”

“Sam-”

“You _helped_ him, Cas! You were supposed to talk some sense into him and instead you did the exact _fucking_ opposite and helped him to stay here. Thanks a lot, Cas. You’re supposed to be our friend.”

“I _am_ ,” Cas replies, finally cutting across his anger. “I’m friends with _both_ of you, Sam, and I’ve not done this to upset you. Dean asked me. I wanted to help him just as I’m helping you try and find a solution to removing the Mark.”

“Yeah? Well I’m fine on my own, okay? I don’t need help from someone who clearly doesn’t think twice about going behind my back. Support Dean all you like... but stay away from me.”

He ends the call and throws his phone onto the empty passenger seat. Eyes closed, he rests his head against the steering wheel and lets out a long, wearied breath. Distantly, he’s aware of the smell of burning bridges, because he’s just rejected the help of an actual angel of the Lord.

Needing to vent, he calls Charlie. After checking that she’s got time to listen, he proceeds to tell her what he’s discovered upon visiting his brother. He knows he’s ranting, but, let’s face it, he’s got a limited number of people whom he can talk to about shit like this and one of _them_ he’s just told where to go.

After a while he realises that she’s gone quiet. Maybe he’s got a sixth sense about when life is about to screw him over again when he’s already had one good kicking, but he knows there’s something lurking in the silence that he’s probably not going to like.

“Charlie?”

For a moment he wonders if she’s hung up, but then she sighs deeply.

“Sam... I’ve gotta tell you something too. I got an email the other day from Dean.”

“What? How? He says he’s not allowed access to a computer.”

“It was from someone who described themselves as ‘Dean’s representative’. There was enough information in there to make me believe it was genuine though.”

“What did they want?”

She sighs again, like it’s buying her time before she has to get to the punch line. “You remember when I set you up with those funds from Roman Enterprises after you ganked Dick? Well, Dean wanted me to set up a payment from his share to ensure he can stay at Fox Pines long-term. I’m really sorry, Sam. I knew you wouldn’t like it, but Dean asked me for help and I couldn’t say no – not after everything he’s been through.”

The blood is rushing in his ears now. Castiel’s betrayal is bad enough, but now Dean has turned to another of their friends and enlisted their help too?

“Sam? Say something.”

“Honestly, Charlie – I have no idea what to say right now. I get through telling you about Cas and then you decide to drop it on me that you’re just as bad? Seriously...”

“I’m sorry, Sam. When I first started hunting Dean _saved_ me from the fear djinn – I owed him. I’m not saying that I agree with what he’s done, but that doesn’t mean that I should refuse to help him. Please don’t make me take sides, Sam.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” he replies bitterly. “I know which side you’d all choose, so why bother?”

He hangs up.

OoOoO

Four hours and a few beers later he’s still angry. Both Castiel and Charlie know how wrong it is for Dean to be locked away like this and yet they’re fucking _enabling_ his brother to stay there, like Dean’s decision to get himself institutionalised is a good one.

He’s half expecting Cas or Charlie to call or even show up at the house, but neither happens. When he’s drunk his way through all the beer, he realises that he’s in no fit state to do any research – either on the Mark _or_ his school assignments – so he turns in for the night instead. He wakes in the morning with a sore head, but a determination that he’s gonna fix Dean’s mess – alone.

He gets through the day’s classes, Christ knows how, and over a dry and tasteless takeout meal starts to review all the information they’ve amassed on the Mark. When his eyes are getting heavy, he realises that there’s a new problem. Most of the potential leads that he has involve people or artefacts that are outside of the States and he’s low in the way of funds to cover the necessary travel. His mind reminds him that he could call Charlie – Dean is using his share of the money she siphoned from Dick Roman, so why can’t he?

But he’s made his bed as far as Cas and Charlie are concerned – he’s doing this alone so frankly, approaching her is out of the question. Despite his tiredness and the lingering hangover, he reaches for the local paper and begins to scan the job advertisements. If he’s going to have the funds to carry on researching the Mark, then he’s going to have to get himself a job.

OoOoO

The weeks bleed into months. Both Cas and Charlie do try to contact him, but it’s easy to ignore them when he’s so busy. Between school, his research on the Mark, visiting Dean and the two part-time jobs he’s secured, he’s not interested in their overtures of peace. Soon, they stop calling.

The store in town where he now works is run by Keith and Clara Lee, a couple in their mid-sixties who’ve lived their entire lives in Harmony. The first time he’d met them, shortly after he and Dean had moved into their house, they’d made what was clearly their favourite joke about how they’d always lived in Harmony, but not necessarily ‘in harmony’. Despite this attempt at self-depreciation, Sam knows soulmates when he sees them.

They’re glad of a strong pair of hands, given neither of them are as young as they used to be and he quickly makes himself popular with their customers as well as proving himself to be a hard-working and diligent employee. Keith’s brother owns a landscaping business, so when the weather improves he also offers Sam some work.

Between his work and the savings he has left from Bobby, he’s able to fund several trips overseas. Nothing comes of them though, and each time that he returns home to the growing pile of bills and assignments, his confidence is chipped away that they’ll ever find a solution.

A further frustration is that Dean doesn’t seem to share his disappointment. Dean appears to have settled into his life as a permanently drugged-to-the-gills psychiatric patient so when he visits, Dean is disinterested in anything he has to say about his search for a cure. He visits every Sunday, unless he’s away and before long, he realises that this punishing routine has gone on for almost six months.

He’s still doing well in school, but keeping his grades high with everything else that’s going on isn’t easy. In order to follow leads on the Mark, he works double shifts at the store so that he’s got the money and the vacation days saved up to be able to make the trips when school breaks. He hides the stress and exhaustion from everyone at school and in work and collapses in the privacy of his own home.

The view in his mirror is increasingly alarming. His skin is sallow and, under his eyes, his bags have bags now. He knows that he’s passed out at least once in work. Fortunately he’s in the stock room and no one else is around so he doesn’t have to explain to anyone why he can’t even make it through an eight hour shift without losing consciousness.

It is something of a wakeup call though, and he tries to make sure he eats healthily and get a good night’s sleep more regularly than he has been doing because he knows that he’s not getting off this hamster wheel any time soon.

OoOoO

After a day spent mowing and building a water feature for Keith’s brother, he races home to grab a quick shower before heading back into town to the store. It’s a typically uneventful shift and he locks up at nine then, exhausted, makes the journey home. He’s every intention of making a start on a paper that’s due two weeks from now, but when he sits down at the kitchen table, it’s a matter of minutes before he’s fast asleep, having told himself that he’ll just rest his eyes for a moment before he gets to work.

He becomes aware that someone is shaking his shoulder. He knows that’s his cue to wake up, but his eyes feel glued together and his muscles won’t coordinate in order to make him sit up. The shaking becomes more vigorous, and it’s joined by a female voice that calls his name with increasing insistence. It’s Jody Mills, and when his eyes finally obey his request, he discovers that she’s looking at him with a mixture of concern and amusement.

He realises that he must have fallen asleep at the kitchen table, surrounded by his studies. When he finally manages to sit up, a piece of paper sticks to his face for a moment before fluttering to the floor. Feeling slightly foolish, he runs his hands through his hair and down across his face, praying that he wasn’t drooling while he slept.

“Uh, hey, Jody. Can I, uh, get you a drink?”

“Stay. There,” she says firmly before she moves to fix them both some coffee. She eyes the sparse worktops and the dirty dishes in the sink. “You do have coffee, right?”

“In that cupboard,” he says around a yawn. She makes her stern face when he goes to stand up. “I’m just gonna go to the bathroom,” he says, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

While she’s making their drinks, he goes upstairs to splash some water on his face. He glances at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and winces. Christ only knows what Jody must think.

“So,” the sheriff says when he walks back into the kitchen several minutes later. “It’s great to see that you’re taking such good care of yourself.”

He shrugs sheepishly before reaching for the mug that she’s set down in front of him. “Yeah... admittedly I’m not a role model for healthy living at the moment.”

She’s looking at him sharply now, a mother’s eye melded with years of possessing a badge. “People are worried about you, Sam.”

“People?” he repeats, “Like who?”

“Charlie, Castiel... Dean.”

He grips the mug and watches the steam rising for a moment. Despite his friends’ transgressions that have brought them to this point, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss them. His mind then catches up and he realises what she’s said.

“Dean? You’ve spoken to him?”

She smiles. “Not for a while, but you’re still his little brother, so of _course_ he worries about you. He saw Charlie a couple of weeks ago, when you were away chasing that lead in Denver? He told her that you were looking a little rough.” She pauses to appraise him again. “There’s certainly nothing wrong with his eyes, at any rate. No offense.”

“None taken,” he replies wearily.

“Charlie called me and asked if I’d come check on you because she wasn’t sure you’d take her call.”

“Yeah, well, it was her choice to go behind my back. Cas’s too.”

She eyes him critically for a moment, evidently weighing up whether to push on with what she wants to say. Jody rarely holds back though, which is one of the reasons that he loves her.

“Can I tell you what I think, Sam? I mean, even though you know that means I’m about to say something you probably won’t like?”

He smiles tiredly. “Go for it. You know I respect your opinion. Plus I’m too dead to throw you out, anyway,” he adds.

“Works for me. Okay, first I get why you’re pissed with them, but I also get why they felt that they couldn’t say no to Dean. They should have been honest with you, so yeah, I think you’ve got a right to be pissed – when it first happened,” she adds quickly. “But now... now it feels like you’re cutting off your nose to spite your face. 

“I think you don’t want to mend fences with them because deep down you’re scared that there _is_ no cure for the Mark and it’s easier to throw your energies at being angry with someone else.”

Silence follows. He processes what she’s said, which he responds too with a quick raise of the eyebrows in the absence of anything more intelligent to say. Jody’s expression softens, worry suffusing her features. 

“Take their calls, Sam, _please_. You’re all looking for a way to remove the Mark so share the burden. It makes sense, and it also means you’re not so alone.”

She leaves a few hours later, after she’s cooked a meal with the stuff she can find in his cupboards and practically sat on his shoulder until he’s eaten it all. She’s also exacted a promise from him that he’ll think about what she’s said, and that he’ll accept weekly care packages of home cooked meals without complaint.

He gives her his word. He’d be lying if he said her comments hadn’t stung, but he does respect her opinion, and as he mulls it over with a beer after she’s gone, he realises that she’s maybe got a point. _Maybe_.

He’s on his second beer when he decides to take action and he grabs his phone before he can change his mind. It’s late, so there’s every possibility that he’ll get Charlie’s voicemail, but it’s answered before the third ring.

“Sam? Are you okay? Is Dean okay?” 

Her breathless sincerity soothes his nerves about whether they’ll be able to make this right.

“I’m okay; Dean is too. I just wondered if we could talk...”

OoOoO

They speak for the best part of an hour. When he ends the call, the air is cleared and he’d be the first to admit that it feels like a weight has been lifted from him. Aside from reconnecting with a friend, it’s been good to talk over how their respective hunts for a way to remove the Mark are going. Charlie invites him for dinner the following week and he accepts.

Once they’ve finished talking, he decides to capitalise on this success by calling Castiel. The angel doesn’t answer, but he leaves him a voicemail asking him to call. Castiel _does_ phone back several days later and, like Charlie, he’s glad that they are able to re-connect.

The only less-than-welcome news is that Metatron is dead. Admittedly Sam's ambivalent – dead was _exactly_ how they wanted the God-wannabe, but there’s now no way of finding where he hid the Demon Tablet. Castiel stresses that the decision was Heaven’s and that he’s sorry that he couldn’t convince them to push Metatron for the tablet’s location before his sentence was carried out. Sam tells him that it’s okay – he knows Cas will have tried. It’s just now become an avenue that they can no longer go down. 

OoOoO

Sunday morning, and he climbs into the car to make the familiar drive to Fox Pines. He’s used to the routine by now so he’s instantly aware that something’s wrong when he’s taken directly to Dr. Beaumont’s office, where he’s left to stew until the great man himself shows up. Staring out of the window, he studies the grounds. A gardener is raking leaves, creating huge red and brown piles beneath the increasingly bare trees. Behind him the door opens, and he spins on his heel.

“Doctor? What’s this about? Is Dean okay?”

Dr. Beaumont gestures for him to sit as he goes behind his desk to his own chair. The older man’s expression is unhappy. 

“Over the last few days, Dean has become increasingly agitated. Normally he’s fairly passive, but we’ve become aware that something is troubling him. Naturally, I’ve tried to speak to him about this change in our sessions, but he won’t say what the problem is.

Last night when our staff carried out their rounds, they found Dean covered in blood." The doctor pauses and studies Sam carefully for a moment. "Tell me, Sam, has Dean been prone to self-harming in the past?"

He screws up his face, about to issue a denial, when the doctor adds: "Your brother has a lot of scars."

Yeah, admittedly it doesn't look great. Before he can come up with a suitable explanation, the older man has evidently decided that the answer to his question is a yes.

"Last night, Dean had made cuts to his arms and used the blood to paint symbols on the wall of his room. When the orderlies went into his room, he grew increasingly agitated, insisting that the symbols needed to be there."

Sam realises that the doctor is waiting for some kind of response from him. "Did you take any photos of the symbols?" he asks.

Dr. Beaumont frowns. "I'm afraid not. Might they have had some significance?"

"Uh, no probably not," he replies, backtracking quickly. "What did he use to cut himself with? I thought this was a secure facility?"

The other man shifts uncomfortably. "He'd snapped a piece of plastic off one of the dinner trays. I can only apologise, Sam and ensure that he will be checked more carefully so that it won't happen again."

"Can I see my brother?"

"Yes, but he's been moved to our hospital wing for the time being. He may be a little woozy from the sedatives that we had to give him last night; as I explained, he was extremely agitated. He's also still in restraints, but they should be able to come off soon providing that he can maintain a calmer state."

Sam nods tersely. He's completely against the idea of Dean being restrained after everything his brother went through with Abaddon, but Dean signed himself up for this, knowing that restraints and confinement went with the territory.

He follows the doctor through to a part of the hospital that he’s never been to before. The surroundings are the same neutral colour scheme as the rest of the hospital, but the feel and the smell here is definitely more clinical. 

He’s taken past a nurses’ station, to a corridor with six identical doors. Dr. Beaumont stops outside the first one. A quick swipe of his security card gives them access and he allows Sam to enter alone. He tells him to return to the nurses’ station when he’s done, so one of the staff can escort him out. Sam steps inside.

There’s no furniture in the off-white room, save the large metal frame bed that his brother is lying on, dressed in the usual t-shirt and track pants. Dean is on his side, his arms in front of him like he’s in a boxer’s defensive stance, although it’s not by choice with his wrists shackled to one of the bed rails. The padded restraints are bulky and the leather straps creak as he moves. Both of his arms are dressed: the right with the ever-present bandage covering the Mark and the left a patchwork of taped gauze patches, hiding the damage he did with the piece of plastic.

Sam approaches the bed. Dean’s eyes are open, but it’s clear to see that whatever they’ve got him on, it must be strong because he’s _completely_ out of his head. He moves so that he’s in Dean’s eye line. It takes a moment, but eventually Dean’s gaze lands on him.

“Hey, Dean. You okay, man?”

Dean goes to say something, but his voice is thick with lack of use. He frowns, swallows and clears his throat. It still sounds like talking is a ridiculous amount of effort for him.

“I’m good, Sammy... You?”

“Wasn’t expecting this,” he replies, gesturing to the scene before him. “What happened, Dean?” He leans in and lowers his voice. “Surely this ‘convincing them that you’re crazy’ thing has gone far enough without carving up your arms and wiping your blood all over the walls?”

Dean studies him, his expression indicating that he’s confused. “What the hell are you on about? I did those blood sigils because I _needed_ to.”

Sam tenses instantly. “Is there something in here?”

If possible, Dean’s frown deepens. He looks mildly irritated by this whole conversation.

“The hospital’s clean,” he replies, then his eyes close like he’s about to go back to sleep. He swallows hard before he opens his eyes again and slowly meets Sam’s gaze. 

“Something’s coming, Sammy. Something bad.”

Ice forms in Sam’s veins. “Like what?”

“Dunno,” Dean says, shifting like he’s trying to get comfortable. The leather restraints creak noisily as he moves. “I have dreams. And I keep seeing things.”

Sam frowns, “What things?”

"I dunno, okay? Just _things_."

Sam knows his brother has always had dreams and dark thoughts, amplified by the Mark of Cain, but if he’s seeing things... maybe something _is_ coming. There’s also another possibility that he reluctantly puts voice to, seeing Dean isn’t able to elaborate on what exactly he’s seeing.

“Dean ... have you considered that it might be _this_ place? I mean, you remember what happened to us when we were in Glenwood Springs; we were both a _mess_. And now you’re on meds that you don’t need and surrounded by other people who are seriously mentally ill. Maybe being _here_ is making you crazy.”

“You done?” Dean replies tiredly, studying him for a moment before he closes his eyes again. “Go home, Sammy. I’m not leaving.”

On the way out, Dr. Beaumont catches up with him. Evidently he’s keen to see if Sam’s gained any kind of insight into why his brother has taken an implement to his body and painted symbols all over his walls with his own blood. He tells the doctor that no, Dean didn’t tell him anything that made any sense and, through gritted teeth, thanks him for his continued care.

He leaves before his anger ignites and he does something he’ll regret. He needs to get Dean out of here _now_.

OoOoO

It doesn't happen. With no further progress on removing the Mark, Dean is going nowhere and, with his finals looming, Sam reluctantly has to accept that the search has to drop down in his priorities, albeit temporarily. 

Charlie and Cas are still looking though, which allows him to focus on his studies. He promised Dean that he'd pass the bar exam, so at least this is something that he can do for his brother. He still gets a kick out of his studies, but he'd trade it all in a heartbeat for his brother's freedom from that terrible curse.

So he studies and sits his exams. At Fox Pines, Dean is quiet and pliant, and the doctors make comments about how he seems to be responding to the treatment. Sam knows Dean is acting this way because he's told his brother that he's got his final exams and Dean clearly doesn't want to give him any additional stress. 

Overall, he thinks his exams go well, but his life is very different from the days when he could score one-seven-four on the LSAT, so time will tell. He occupies his time with work and translating some old texts that Charlie sends over. He visits Dean every Sunday and the gulf between them stays exactly the same. 

OoOoO

The envelope is waiting in the mailbox when he arrives home. He knows he should feel excited, nervous, _something_ , but all he feels is exhausted after a long day spent shifting soil. He grabs a beer and sits down at the table and stares at the anonymous brown envelope. When the beer is gone, he opens it and starts to read. 

His phone starts to ring and absently he pats his pockets until he locates it. _Jody_.

“Hey, Sheriff, how are you?”

“Good. I’m good. How about you?”

He glances at the paper in his hand again.

“Not bad. My hands are shredded because I just moved three tonnes of earth. Oh, and I qualified as a lawyer.”

Her squawk of surprise makes him grin.

“Sam! That’s fantastic! Why didn’t you call me?”

“I’ve only just read the letter. You’re the first person to find out.”

“Well I’m honoured. So when’s graduation?”

“Two weeks from today. I’m not gonna go though.” 

“What? _Why?_ ”

He knows she gets it really. Without Dean he doesn’t feel like celebrating, even though, undoubtedly, this is the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time.

“If you want someone in the audience, then you know I’ll be there,” she says, after a pause.

He stands and heads for the refrigerator to grab himself another beer, the phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder. “It’s okay, but I appreciate the offer. There’s only one thing I want to celebrate, and there’s no sign of that happening any time soon.”

“I know,” she replies softly. “But don’t think I’m gonna let your efforts go unnoticed, you hear me?”

He finds out what she means the following weekend, when he arrives home to find Jody, Cas and Charlie waiting outside the house. His first instinct is that something’s wrong, but his worry bursts instantly when he sees that Jody is holding a helium balloon with ‘Congratulations’ written across it. Cas looks suitably awkward holding a couple of six packs and there are grocery bags spread around on the front porch.

“Glad you could make it,” Jody says, smiling, as he climbs from the car.

“Yeah?” he says, his own smile growing. “What is it I didn’t miss?”

“Your graduation party,” she replies, bending down and digging in one of the bags. She pulls out a mortarboard, which she then, on tiptoes, places on his head. “Very nice,” she announces, standing back to admire her handiwork. Charlie and Castiel are smiling too.

Still wearing the cap, he lets them into the house, grateful that he has friends who will do this for him because they know that he’s got a brother that can’t right now.

OoOoO

After the elation of completing his studies subsides, his attention turns to trying to secure a job. He prepares his CV and spends hours every evening applying for positions. Most are in Topeka, but he expands his radius, even though he’s limited by his need to stay close to Dean. Charlie calls when he’s just gotten through yet another application form. It’s a welcome break from the paperwork, but he’s quickly got a pen back in his hand because of what she’s got to tell him.

_There’s a guy in New Orleans who can apparently find anything. It might be worth seeing if he can locate the Demon Tablet._

He takes down the details and tells her that he’ll head over there next week, since he’s got a four day break between his shifts at the store. Hoping he’s on some kind of roll at last, he can’t wait for the day to come. Admittedly, it feels good to get behind the wheel of the car again. He’s got a drive of approximately one thousand miles ahead of him and the clear skies and endless roads have a familiarity that almost feels like home. His good mood is tempered by Dean not being beside him and he feels his big brother’s absence every single mile of the journey.

It takes a couple of days to find the guy Charlie’s told him about and several hundred dollars to get him to agree to see him. He experiences a vicious stab of cynicism when he’s asked to make a payment to secure his appointment and told _Visa_ will be fine.

A descendent of a hoodoo high priestess, Joseph Laveau has his front room decked out like a tourist’s cliché of what any self-respecting master of the dark arts would need to operate in. Sam holds back from asking if he’s considered hanging chickens’ feet from the picture rails, just to complete the look.

He says nothing because although this man caters to the tourist trade who want to know their futures and commune with the dead, he’s actually the real deal – a sorcerer hiding in plain sight. The other reason he says nothing is that he doesn’t get chance. Despite having a pre-arranged appointment, Laveau catches one glimpse of his face and tells his ‘associate’ to send Sam packing, his credit card payment for the agreed reading will be refunded in full, immediately. 

He returns to his motel utterly frustrated and nursing the strong desire to go out and find someone to punch, because he has no idea why Laveau suddenly turned him away. He drowns his frustrations in a nearby bar, then staggers back to the motel and passes out on the slightly stale-smelling bed. In the morning, he wakes to the too-bright sun spilling in past the curtains that he forgot to close, and the shrill insistent tone of his cell, which is ringing and vibrating in the pocket of the jeans he never got around to taking off.

“Yeah?” he grumbles, when he answers the call to the unfamiliar number. Too late, he realises that it _could_ be someone calling about a job interview, but the voice indicates that he’s fortunately avoided that potential disaster.

“Sam Winchester? Mr. Laveau says to come over. He’ll see you at nine. Don’t be late.”

Before he can turn his muddled thoughts into coherent words, the caller has hung up. He glances over at the clock and groans because it’s almost eight o’clock already, and he’s sensing that if he’s late, then Laveau will change his mind again. Ignoring the protests of his aching head, he takes a quick shower after washing some painkillers down with a significant amount of water.

By nine, he’s back at Joseph Laveau’s house, making a conscious effort not to sway as he waits for someone to open the door. It’s eventually opened by the burly keeper who escorted him off the premises yesterday. He doesn’t appear any more welcoming, but he shows Sam into the sitting room where he takes a seat, in a bizarre Groundhog Day repeat of the day before.

Another associate appears after he’s been there for a couple of minutes and invites Sam to follow him into a different part of the house. Surprisingly, he’s taken through into a spacious, sun-lit conservatory, where he finds Joseph Laveau seated on a large wicker chair. 

Laveau is younger than he expected, with closely cropped hair and a boyish face. His gaze is intense, and Sam finds himself squirming slightly under the scrutiny, aware that he’s probably still a little drunk and it probably shows.

“Sam Winchester,” Laveau says with a knowing smile. “Come in and take a load off. Looks like you need it.”

He gestures to the seat across from his own.

Sam glances behind him only to discover that Laveau’s employee has slipped out without him realising – no mean feat for a man of his size and stature.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me... eventually.”

Laveau laughs. “You Winchesters don’t take kindly to being told no.”

He ignores the attempt to disarm him further. “So why the change of heart?”

“Trouble follows you, Sam Winchester. Even _you_ must have worked that out. You and your brother... Let’s just say, I’m not that desperate for your money.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question.” He’s starting to wish he’d taken stronger painkillers, because his headache and the sour taste in his mouth means that he’s not in the mood for riddles and double talk. “I get why you wouldn’t want to see me, so why am I here?”

“I dreamt you, last night,” Laveau explains simply. “I know why you’re here and I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.” He holds up his hand to forestall whatever he thinks Sam is about to say about that. “But I wanted to tell you that you need to keep looking. You’re close to _something_ that will help your brother, and finding a solution will be more important than even you realise. You’ll need Heaven and Hell on your side.”

Sam studies the other man’s face. He has a smile that looks teasing, but he has no reason to lie. 

“Is there a reason why you can’t locate the Demon Tablet? Your reputation says that you can find _anything_.”

Laveau doesn’t appear offended, not that he really cares. “Everyone has their limits, Sam. I know you're nearly at yours, but you've got to keep going. Something's coming, Sam Winchester and you need to keep looking."

OoOoO

He arrives back from New Orleans in the early hours of Sunday morning. Admittedly it’s nice to return from a trip without any fresh injuries, although the outcome has been frustratingly disappointing. 

The light on the answering machine is flashing as he lets himself in, but he waits until he’s grabbed himself a beer before he sits down to listen to his messages. One is from Jody – nothing urgent, just checking in that he’s eating properly and washing behind his ears. He smiles as he listens to it, then presses the button to hear the next one. 

An unfamiliar female voice informs him that she’s calling from Winestein, Sherman and Kreisberg and they’d like to invite him for an interview on Tuesday of next week – would he be available to attend?

He listens to the message again, just to be sure, because of all the companies he’d applied to, this was his preference. The message was left on Friday, so he hopes it’s not too late because there’s no point in calling until tomorrow now.

He gets a few hours’ sleep before going to visit Dean. His brother is quiet and appears pre-occupied staring out of the window, even though Sam’s not sure what he’s looking at. He tells Dean about Joseph Laveau and his attempt to find the Demon Tablet. He’s not sure if Dean’s listening although his brother’s eyes flick towards him when he mentions that Laveau thinks he’s close to an answer. 

Dean’s movements make him appear drunk, even though Sam knows it’s the medication. He’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but Dean appears to be developing some tics – quick facial movements and twitches, that definitely weren’t there before.

Changing the subject, he then tells Dean about his job interview. Weirdly, Dean appears more interested in _this_ information and he grins. 

“That’s great news. You wanna good tip for a job interview, Sammy? Avoid dark eye shadow, bright lipstick or heavy foundation.” He waves his hand, although there’s no obvious reason for the motion. “I read that somewhere once.”

Sam studies him in bemusement. If Dean’s still play acting insanity, he’s doing a _seriously_ good job.

OoOoO

The interview at Winestein, Sherman and Kreisberg is with Edgar Winestein himself and two of the silent partners. He answers all their questions and makes appropriate chitchat, and he leaves the offices in Topeka with a positive feeling that it’s gone well. Edgar Winestein calls several hours later to offer him the position, and he makes no attempt to hide his elation.

He phones Charlie and Jody because he needs to share his news with someone. For a moment he contemplates calling the hospital and asking to speak to Dean, but decides against it, since his brother was barely lucid the last time he saw him. 

With a start date in three weeks’ time, he goes to down to the store to tell Keith and Clara that he’s handing his notice in. Clara hugs him hard and Keith claps him on the back when he tells them that he got the job. They treat him like a member of the family and he’s genuinely touched by how pleased they are for him. He extracts a promise from the couple that they’ll call if they need his help with anything, and likewise, Clara makes him promise that he’ll come for dinner regularly. He says he will and means it.

With the knowledge that he’ll soon have a decent wage coming in, he takes a large chunk of his savings to buy some good quality suits. He’s about to head out when Charlie calls, and when he tells her what he’s doing, she offers to come with him.

Charlie turns out to be a godsend, because although he’s intelligent enough to pass the bar exam, he’s not exactly adept at selecting high fashion. Admittedly, Charlie isn’t either, but between them and a sales assistant who catches a glimpse of Sam’s wallet full of cash, he manages to come away with a new work wardrobe that will hopefully create the right impression. To celebrate, they stash his purchases in Charlie’s car and head to a bar.

He doesn’t think he’s being quiet, but Charlie says as much after they’ve been there a while. He offers her an apologetic smile. 

“I was just wondering what Dean would think about how much money I’ve just spent on clothes.” He laughs to himself, as he plucks at the front of his worn plaid shirt. “We grew up getting stuff from goodwill and thrift stores, so we’ve never really done this. He’d have either got a massive kick out of it, or he’d have killed me.”

Charlie laughs, but her returning smile is sympathetic.

“Does it still feel weird not to be living together?”

“Yeah, it does. I can’t believe it’s been two years.” He looks at her for a moment, before he ducks his head and continues. “Does it sound weird saying I always imagined it would be Dean doing this with me?”

He chances a look at her, but she’s shaking her head. 

“If it was anyone else, maybe, but you two? No, it doesn’t.”

Sam huffs a laugh, relieved that she doesn’t think badly of them. On the spur of the moment, he decides to share something else with her.

“Years ago, Dean and I went to Heaven-”

Her eyebrows nearly shoot up to her hairline. “You’re kidding, right?”

He laughs. “I wish I were. Anyway, when we were there, we were there _together_. Apparently that’s unusual. Heaven’s normally a solo affair, except for soulmates and special cases.” He studies her now. “That’s gotta make us weird, right?”

Despite his intended levity, he feels strangely emotional by the admission. He misses Dean because he's long since accepted that they're always destined to be together. Seeing that he’s teetering on the edge of something, she reaches over and squeezes his hand. Her dark eyes are earnest as she studies him.

“You’re Sam and Dean Winchester. It makes perfect sense to me.”

OoOoO

Sam officially becomes a lawyer for Winestein, Sherman and Kreisberg on the First of August. The transition from student to regular working Joe is both terrifying and exhilarating and most nights he arrives home utterly exhausted and yet unable to sleep. His head buzzes with the cases he’s been given and he finds himself doing almost as much work in the evenings as he had done as a student.

He still finds time to research the Mark of Cain and when he gets a new lead, this time in Europe, it’s a huge relief to know that he can fund the trip immediately. Obviously he hopes this will be the _last_ trip he’ll ever have to make, but if it isn’t, at least he’s got the finances to keep going.

OoOoO

“I’m going to Spain,” Sam announces at his usual Sunday visit.

Dean rests his head on his splayed fingers. He looks thoroughly unimpressed.

“Postcard’d be nice,” is all he says.

OoOoO

Spain is a bust. The months pass and he adds Italy, Ireland and Russia to that list. He’s seen some incredible countries, yet not seen them at all because his limited time has been spent in a succession of dusty old vaults and libraries, chasing leads that inevitably lead nowhere. As he always does, following an unsuccessful trip, he throws himself into work to head off his depression at yet another failure. 

December approaches and the temperature steadily drops. He starts to make the usual preparations around the house – he spends a significant amount of time one weekend chopping logs for the wood stove Dean installed, after stocking up on rock salt to ensure his driveway remains clear. He allows himself a wry smile as he makes the purchase, because its purpose is so _ordinary_. 

Despite his severe reservations, he agrees to attend the Christmas party at work. He figures he’ll show his face for an hour, then slip away when the general level of alcohol consumption means that he won’t be missed. It’s part of his attempt to maintain an air of normality with his co-workers, as well as the fact that his boss has told him that there will be several of their most wealthy clients in attendance, giving it a slightly less optional feel about it, even though it’s the _last_ place he wants to be on a cold Friday evening in mid-December.

Unfortunately, it quickly becomes apparent that things aren’t going to go to plan. He’s not been there long when a woman he vaguely recognises as someone who comes to the offices for board meetings, makes her way over. She’s smiling in a way that makes him instantly wary.

“I’m Lynsey Hart, silent partner. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?”

He’s little choice but to accept her outstretched hand. She’s got long, well-manicured nails painted the same shade of purple as her figure-hugging dress. She’s clearly a wealthy woman in – he guesses – her early fifties, and crucially, there’s no sign of a wedding ring.

“Sam Winchester,” he replies, offering her a smile and unwittingly revealing dimples that fuel her interest in him.

“Ah, I know that name. Edgar speaks very highly of you.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, Sam. I could _really_ do with another drink. Would you be able to get one for me?”

While she’s talking, he can see a couple of his colleagues watching the encounter with interest. When he catches Steve’s eye, the other man winks and gives him a grin best described as ‘shit-eating’.

He excuses himself to go and get her a drink. While he’s waiting at the bar, Steve wanders over and slaps him on the back.

“Way to go, Winchester,” he laughs. “You know who she is, right?”

“One of the silent partners.”

When his colleague doesn’t reply, he turns to see Steve looking at him like he’s grown a second head. “ _Silent partner?_ Jesus, Sam. And the rest! Do you know how wealthy the Hart family are around here?”

“Should I?”

Steve shakes his head sadly. “Sometimes I think you must be an android or made of stone or from Mars or something. Anyway, you’re seriously onto a good thing there. You know they _invented_ the term ‘cougar’ for women like her?”

The bartender arrives with his drinks – a soda for him and a Bloody Mary for her – saving him from more of this awkward and, frankly, embarrassing conversation. He returns to the heir to the Hart dynasty fortune and hands her her drink.

“So, Sam. Tell me a little more about yourself.”

He’s about to launch into a brief, yet falsified back story when he realises that his boss is approaching. Edgar Winestein is dressed immaculately as usual, and on his arm has a young woman who smiles shyly at him as they approach.

“Apologies for interrupting,” he says.

“Not at all,” the older woman answers. “Sam was just telling me about himself.”

“Well, I wonder if I might just introduce Sara here. She’s Bill Hardman’s eldest daughter, Sam.” 

Sam knows Bill – tall, silver-haired, more money than sense. He smiles politely.

“Nice to meet you, Sara.” He shakes her hand and her smile widens. Despite his reservations about her father, she’s attractive, in an understated way, her long blonde hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She reminds him of Jess in a way he can’t quite put feelings to.

“Oh, Lynsey,” Edgar continues. “I wonder if I could just borrow you for a moment. Derek was talking about something before and I’d like to get your opinion.”

If the older woman is disappointed then she doesn’t show it as Edgar leads her away, leaving Sam and Sara alone.

“Wow, that was subtle,” Sara observes after a moment.

Sam laughs in surprise. Despite being awkwardly set up, it’s admittedly preferable to the attentions he was receiving prior to his boss’s arrival.

Sara Hardman turns out to not be the wallflower, rich little daddy’s girl he was expecting her to be. In short, if he had any other life than the one he has right now, he’d probably be flattered by her interest and happy to see whether the connection could develop beyond this initial meeting. She’s flirting with him, but quite clearly she’s not the kind of girl that he could sleep with without there being consequences – consequences that in this other life, would probably be okay.

He feels bad when he makes his excuses and leaves, her subtly surprised expression indicating that she thought things had been going well between them. He feels worse when he goes to find his boss and tells him that he has to leave because there’s a situation with his brother. Edgar nods gravely, and squeezes him arm, telling him quietly that he hopes everything is okay.

Once he’s alone in his car, he allows his frustrations to surface. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s driving three hours in the wrong direction, pulling off the interstate to the nearest dive bar-slash-motel combo he can find, and picking up a girl who doesn’t look like Jess, whom he takes back to his room and fucks until they both fall asleep in a sweaty tangle of sheets.

He wakes in the morning, sticky-eyed and furry-mouthed and is relieved to find that his date for the evening has already left. When he checks his wallet, he estimates that he’s about fifty dollars short, but figures that it’s no more than he deserves.

OoOoO

_NOW_

It figures that he’d spend three years going around the world and yet the answer would be close to home.

It’s been at least a month since his last trip following a lead (another dead-end) and there’s nothing to give him any kind of heads up that such a monumental development is about to happen, but he comes out of a deposition to find twenty missed calls from Charlie. He listens to the single voicemail she’s left. She sounds breathless as she tells him that it’s nothing bad, but that he needs to call her the moment he gets this.

Guessing that it’s not the kind of conversation that he wants to have in an office full of people, he hurries out to his car, hitting redial before he’s seated. She answers immediately, like she’s been sitting, staring at the phone, willing it to ring.

“I’ve found something,” she says, eschewing the usual telephone etiquette of greeting a caller. “Hidden in the bunker. I think they’re Kevin’s notes from when he was translating the tablets. There are references to ‘The One Who Destroys Everything’. That’s what they called Dean, right? And there’s something about the Mark in them.”

Sam checks his planner, already mentally re-arranging meetings and cancelling appointments.

“I’ll be straight over,” he assures her, before something occurs to him. “Do I need to call Cas?”

His heart rate doubles when she says, “Yeah I think that’d be a good idea.”

There’s something still unsaid. “Charlie?”

“You, uh, you might want to call Crowley too.”

OoOoO 

_Holy shit_.

He stares at the notebook again, as if the words might be any less explosive the second or third or fourth time around. They’re not.

Lucifer is coming. It’s the End of Days.

“Is there a chance Kevin could have been wrong?” Charlie asks as she peers over his shoulder to read the words again. 

He shakes his head. Kevin was a perfectionist and everything else he’d managed to translate in his short career as a prophet was totally accurate, so there’s no reason to think he’s wrong now. He thinks back to the last time Lucifer was raised from Hell and something suddenly occurs to him.

"When Lucifer rose before, there were signs."

"Like what?"

"Like, uh, increased demon activity, meteorological anomalies... and then the dead started to walk."

" _Zombies?_ " Charlie exclaims. "Are we talking full-on _Dawn of the Dead_ here? I mean, I'm all for a bit of zombie action, but you know, _on TV_."

Sam gives her a humourless smile. "Can't disagree with that, but yeah – that’s pretty much exactly what to expect."

"Did you call Castiel?" she asks.

"Yeah, he's on his way. Once he's here we'll summon Crowley." He thinks about the King of Hell and realises that it's been over three years since he last laid eyes on him. He feels tired at the thought. Charlie is still watching him closely so he forces himself from his musing. "Okay, we should start calling around - see if any hunters out there have noticed any unusual activity. It'll help us narrow down where it's going to happen."

“So let me get this straight - Armageddon is coming in _two weeks_ , but we have no idea where.” Charlie goes to leave, but stops suddenly. "D'you want a drink? I _need_ a drink."

Sam nods because he knows she isn't talking about coffee.

OoOoO

Castiel arrives several hours later. He apologises for having to come via traditional means, but his grace is waning and he's trying to conserve his energy. He listens to them talk and he reads Kevin's translations for himself. While they were waiting for him to arrive, they've managed to do a significant amount of research that indicates the tablet isn't lying. The weird stuff is starting, so it's only a matter of time.

They decide to use the panic room to summon Crowley. Although an unspoken truce has existed between them ever since they rescued Dean from Abaddon, they're not sure how he'll react to being summoned, so it's better to be safe than sorry. Once they've assembled the necessary ingredients, Sam casts the spell. There's a flash and suddenly Crowley is standing in their midst, looking seriously displeased to find himself beamed straight into the middle of a devil's trap.

" _Seriously?_ Three years without so much as a 'how you doing, Crowley?' and you summon me like a bloody genie?" He surveys the people before him and frowns. "Where's Squirrel?"

"Crowley," Sam says, ignoring the question. "We had to summon you. There's a situation and we need your help."

The demon rolls his eyes. "Is this the part where I'm supposed to be surprised? Because guess what? _I'm not_."

"The situation involves Lucifer."

The look on Crowley's face makes it almost worth it. _Almost_.

"And you're involved whether you like it or not, so here's what's going to happen."

Being so direct with Crowley could backfire, but Sam takes the gamble. Crowley knew he'd have to be involved when Abaddon was threatening to displace him in Hell, so Lucifer being back in the game ups the stakes considerably. 

Dispensing with his usual sarcasm, Crowley queries whether they should be trying to find the Demon Tablet in the hope that they can read the rest of the prophecy, but Sam shakes his head. There isn't time, and even if they find it, there are no prophets to read it. They've just got to work with what they _do_ know. 

Understandably, Crowley's not pleased with this sizeable addition to his 'To Do' list, but he agrees to help, because frankly what choice does he have? Sam breathes a sigh once he breaks the devil's trap and Crowley disappears. Cas then takes his leave too, so that he can inform Heaven. 

“Okay,” Charlie says slowly once they're alone. "What do we do next?”

“Next?" Sam replies. "Next I need to go and see my brother."

OoOoO

“Doc says you needed to see me,” Dean says although he doesn’t sound curious or concerned that Sam’s here even though it’s not Sunday. Sam tells himself that it’s better than finding Dean practically comatose, _keeps_ telling himself that because this is definitely not going to be easy.

“Yeah. There’s a situation.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “When is there _not?_ ”

“Please, Dean. Just listen, okay?”

His brother makes a _go ahead_ gesture. Before he starts, he glances around because if anyone overhears what he’s about to say, they’ll be locking him up right next to Dean.

“We’ve found some of Kevin’s translations from the Demon Tablet.” Dean flinches at the mention of Kevin’s name, but he keeps listening.

“Obviously, we were hoping to find something about removing the Mark, and there _is_ something on there about the Mark, but it’s not what we expected. It seems that Kevin was working on translating a prophecy – I’m guessing it piqued his interest because, as we know, prophecies are usually kinda vague, but this one had a date on it – this year’s date, to be precise.”

He pauses again to check that his brother’s still following him. 

“Lucifer’s gonna rise, Dean, _soon_. And the Demon Tablet says that there will only be one who can stop him.”

Dean sighs. “Let me guess, it’s not the fucking Highlander, is it?”

Despite everything, Sam laughs.

“Sadly not.” His amusement disappears instantly when he thinks about Kevin’s workings. “The tablet says that unless he’s stopped now, his return to Earth will bring about the end of humanity. It says that Lucifer can only be stopped by ‘The One Who Destroys Everything’, Dean.”

He studies his brother, who nods like Sam’s just told him that there’s no more pie left.

“Hmm,” Dean muses, more to himself than Sam, “That might explain what Abaddon told me about how the ‘Big Man downstairs’ was the one to bring her back. Figures it'd have to someone with serious juice. But why now and how’d he get out of the cage? And why the hell didn’t Kevin say anything?”

Sam shakes his head. He doesn’t have those answers and it hardly helps his argument, especially when Dean’s suspicious of anything he might do that would get him to leave Fox Pines.

“I’m sorry, man, I don’t know. Without the actual tablet and another prophet we can’t translate the rest of the part that Kevin was working on, but there have been signs – like last time – that something’s going to happen.”

“Like what?”

“The dead are walking; it seems like Lucifer's assembling his army again.”

“Yeah? So I’m supposed to take on the devil himself and a whole army of the undead without backup, or am I expected to have Rick Grimes on speed dial now?”

“The prophecy says that the bearer of the Mark will lead an army of demons into battle, but ultimately Lucifer will be slain... by the First Blade.”

The obvious answer is that the strong anti-psychotics Dean is on have stopped him from putting two and two together sooner in working out why Sam’s here, because at the mention of the First Blade he flinches and then looks as if he’s been punched. 

“Oh, no,” Dean replies, his voice barely more than a growled whisper. He looks devastated. “I- I can’t. You saw what it made me do last time, Sammy. You can’t ask me to go there again.”

“I know, Dean and I’m so, so sorry. If there was any other way, man, I swear, but it’s quite literally written in stone. Lucifer’s coming... and we need you, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head, suddenly looking angry. “I _told_ you something was coming, Sammy. I _told_ you, but you didn’t believe me-”

“Dean-”

“You thought I was crazy. You thought I’d lost my _fucking mind_ so you didn’t listen.”

The protest dies in Sam’s throat because Dean’s right. Listening to his brother probably wouldn’t have changed anything with regards to the situation with Lucifer, but their relationship would surely be in an entirely different state to the fractured mirror he’s looking into now.

“I’m sorry, man. You’re right; I should have listened to you.”

Dean smiles suddenly, but without humour. “Yeah, hindsight’s a bitch, huh?”

This is getting them nowhere. “So will you help?” he asks gently after a brief silence. He’s no idea what they’ll do it Dean says no, but he’s not about to bully his brother into doing it.

The answer is slow to come. Eventually Dean nods, but it’s clear that he’s far from happy.

Admittedly, Sam can’t exactly blame him.

OoOoO

Sam’s first job is to call into work. He’s taken it as a personal day, but also asked if he could see Edgar. His boss is in the office when he arrives and invites Sam in. It’s clear Edgar’s concerned because Sam is diligent and conscientious and doesn’t do stuff like this unless there’s a problem. The older man tells Sam as much and he nods his agreement as he apologises, all the while thinking that averting the End of Days could probably be classed as ‘a problem’. Sam accepts the seat but refuses the coffee.

He hates that he’s lying through his teeth to this man, but he embarks on his story about Dean being sick – physically this time – and how he needs to support his brother through the treatment. He thinks of Dean’s face at the mention of the First Blade – how shattered Dean looked at the thought of what he’d have to do. He’s still talking to Edgar and without realising, his voice has started to waver.

Before he knows it, Edgar is standing next to his chair, a hand resting supportively on his shoulder.

“Take as much time as you need, son,” his boss says. “You’ll always have a place here, but you need to deal with this thing you’ve got going on.”

_You have no idea_ , Sam thinks before he thanks Edgar for his understanding and leaves.

OoOoO

He climbs behind the wheel of his car and lets out long, steadying breath. It’s fair to say he hadn’t expected to be so overcome, but talking about Dean, it hit him all over again how much this will cost his brother. At least it convinced his employer that he needed the time off. 

He knows from a ‘saving the whole world’ point of view that he should probably feel elated - or at least relieved - that they’ve secured Dean’s agreement to help, because it was in no way a surefire thing. Now they can put the next part of the plan into action, bringing them closer to ending the ultimate evil, but all he really feels is a deep sense of sorrow that to do that, his brother will be returned to his own personal hell.

The next step now is to get Dean out of Fox Pines. Back at the bunker with Charlie and Cas they angst over it for a while, weighing up the pros and cons of the various options. Although Dean has agreed to leave, as a patient with a serious psychological disorder, he can’t just choose to walk out of the place. 

The obvious solution is to make it look like Dean’s finally responding to the treatment – that he finally realises that the demons, angels and everything in between that he’s ranted and raved about for the last three years are in his head and nothing more. Despite it seeming like the easy answer, they just haven’t got time for the long game. 

The next possibility is making it look like Dean’s funds have dried up, giving the hospital no choice but to put him out. The problem with that is, he’s spent the last three years repeatedly advising them he’s a danger, to himself and others, so it’s highly unlikely that they’ll just let him walk because he can’t pay his bills. That would then lead to the further problem of them moving him to somewhere government funded – or worse – prison. 

It becomes clear then, that the only solution is to remove Dean from Fox Pines without prior warning. Cas’s borrowed grace means his powers are limited, but he thinks he has enough juice to zap he and Dean out of there, if he can get in via regular means. They’ll have to worry about the fallout later.

Sam phones the hospital and advises the staff that he won’t be visiting this Sunday to allow a friend to come in his place. They’ve met Castiel on a few occasions, so no suspicions are aroused. He feels a pang of guilt for the stress Dean’s disappearance will undoubtedly cause them, before reminding himself that he’s extricating their patient for the greater good.

OoOoO

At the appointed hour, he sits in the car like a getaway driver, which is basically what he is. The idea is that Castiel will go into Fox Pines as Dean's visitor for the week, and once they're alone together, he'll get them out. Depending on how quickly their absence is noticed, they may have to drive away pretty damn fast... or not. 

He’s come in the Impala – his own car has been seen at Fox Pines almost weekly since he bought it – so he figures bringing Dean’s car will help him be a little more inconspicuous. He also thinks seeing ‘Baby’ will help his brother remember that he _belongs_ out here, in the real world again. 

Dean's a fully paid up member of this plan, although his agreement has come with one condition: he wants to spend as little time as possible near the Blade. Cas has agreed to keep the weapon in its current hiding place until it's needed, a suggestion that Sam wholeheartedly agrees with. 

Cas has been gone now for about twenty-five minutes. He contemplates turning on the radio to stem the rising tide of adrenaline knowing his brother could literally appear any second, but settles for drumming his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel.

Another five minutes pass. He glances down for literally a split-second and when he looks back up, Dean and Cas are standing barely three feet from the car. Dean is staring at the car, an expression of longing on his face before he looks up and their eyes meet. Cas looks as if he’s about to collapse – the power needed to get him and Dean out of there has clearly exhausted his limited grace. Sam gets out of the car quickly to help.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says. He’s not smiling, but neither does he seem angry or unhappy.

Sam stands for a moment, awash in the realisation that this is his big brother, _outside_ for the first time in three years. He tries to tell himself that it’s no big deal, but it’s clear from Dean’s expression that it is. He’s about to say something reassuring when the sound of an alarm splits the silence. It explodes through the trees, Fox Pines its only possible source.

“Shit,” Sam mutters, glancing around, expecting trouble at any second. He knows from his research into the psychiatric hospital that they take security extremely seriously. “Come on,” he urges, beckoning to Dean and Cas. “We’ve gotta get out of here _now_.”

Then, just as quickly as they started, the alarms fall silent. They all look at each other. 

“Cas?” Sam asks. “Did you do this?”

“No. I have no idea what’s going on,” the angel replies. 

“Let’s just get out of here,” Dean growls. “We can worry about it later.”

They get in the car and drive.

OoOoO

“Thank you. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

Sam ends the call and stares at the phone in his hand as he waits for the epiphany that won’t come. He’s just got off the phone from Fox Pines. On a hunch he used his Steve Crane research student credentials again and has been told by Dr. Beaumont that there must be some mistake. There’s no record of a person named Dean Winchester having ever been a patient at the hospital and most certainly not one who’s been there the length of time that he’s insisting. The Steve Crane alias also doesn’t raise any suspicion with the head physician – indicating that he doesn’t remember Sam either.

Across the room Dean is sitting apparently staring into space. Sam takes a moment to study his brother while Dean’s not aware of the scrutiny. He’s still dressed in the grey t-shirt and track pants from the hospital although, thankfully, the slippers are nowhere to be seen. Even though Dean’s seated, he’s never really static due to the involuntary twitches caused by his heavy medication.

_Medication_. Sam realises that they’re going to have to get hold of some of the meds Dean was taking at Fox Pines, because he’s read up about coming off such powerful anti-psychotics and cold turkey just isn’t an option.

He sighs. Dean looks _faded_ – a washed-out version of the brother he once was. The thought that they’re about to send Dean out to face the Devil himself feels utterly cruel. Any further doubts are reluctantly put on hold as Castiel comes down the stairs.

“Hey,” he says in greeting as he glances at Dean and then Sam. His expression is questioning, presumably because they’re sitting in two different places.

“I was just on the phone,” Sam explains. “I was trying to find out how much of an issue we’ve got with Dean’s disappearance.” He shakes his head, because he’s still frustrated. “I’ve had the police scanner on, but there’s been no mention of an escaped psychiatric patient so I hacked the hospital records. Strange thing is, I can’t find any reference to Dean there either. So I phoned and spoke to the doctor in charge. He says he’s never had a patient by the name of Dean Winchester there _at all_.”

“I think I can answer that,” Cas replies. Dean looks up, vaguely interested too. “I’ve been to Heaven and spoken with Hannah. She entered the hospital just after we left and wiped everyone’s memories. As far as all the staff are concerned, they’ve no idea who Dean is.”

“Wow,” Dean says after a moment’s silence. “She must have some serious juice.”

“She does,” Cas confirms. “She’s proving a worthy leader up there, bringing stability for the first time in... well, a long, long time. Lucifer’s return could throw all this into chaos so she recognises the importance of aiding our quest.”

“Heaven and Hell,” Sam muses.

Dean frowns. “What?”

“Joseph Laveau, the mystic in New Orleans. He said we’d need Heaven and Hell on our side to pull this off.”

On the desk in front of him, Sam’s cell starts to ring. He glances down and sighs, because he really doesn’t need this shit right now.

“Speak of the devil,” he mutters, hitting the button to answer it.

“Moose,” Crowley says, sounding irritated. “There’s no point inviting me over to your clubhouse if you’re not going to let me in.”

“One minute,” Sam snaps. He hears Crowley’s ‘ _you Winchesters and your bloody Devil’s Traps_ ’ just before he ends the call. He rolls his eyes and heads for the door. 

“Crowley’s here,” he announces. “Remind me not to kill him, okay?”

OoOoO

Turns out a reminder would be _extremely_ useful because Crowley’s only been here a matter of minutes before he’s being, well, _Crowley_ , and Sam could cheerfully kill him. Crowley ignores Castiel completely as he strolls down the stairs because his attention is completely focussed on Dean.

For his part, Dean isn’t aware of the scrutiny because his head is in his hands and he may or may not have gone to sleep, since it’s impossible to tell.

“ _This_ is our prize fighter?” Crowley says, throwing his hands up in despair. Sam glares at him pointedly, because the stupid fucker has clearly forgotten what ‘tact’ looks like.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t pin any hopes on me either,” Dean says wearily without lifting his head from his hands. Sam realises that his brother is still wearing the plastic hospital identity bracelet. Finally Dean looks up to meet the demon’s skeptical gaze. “Nice to see you too, Crowley.”

Sam takes a deep, centring breath, already starting to think that maybe they’ve underestimated how difficult this will be. 

“You’re rusty, Dean,” he says firmly, eyeballing Crowley while Dean isn’t looking to warn him to keep quiet. “That’s to be expected. You’ve been out of the game a long time. I wasn’t exactly a first-rate hunter after I’d been at Stanford for two years.”

He’s reaching, he knows, but he’s got to say _something._ Dean’s a mess.

“ _Rusty?_ ” Dean says, somewhat incredulously, “Seriously, Sam, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but there’s no point trying to sugar coat it – I’m fuckin’ useless.” As if to illustrate his point, the muscles in his right arm spasms, making the limb jump from where it's resting in his lap.

" _Jesus_ ," Crowley mutters, which under any other circumstances might be funny. Sam glares again, but Crowley's turned his back to them.

"So what's the plan exactly?" Dean asks, without enthusiasm.

Admittedly, Sam didn’t want to go into this with Dean still so brittle, but giving his brother something to focus on might not be such a bad idea, no matter how insane it all seems.

“Okay. Well, Charlie is coordinating all the information coming in from hunters out there and we think we’re starting to get a handle on where Lucifer might rise, given the concentrated activity in the surrounding areas. 

“On the date the tablet predicted, which is just under two weeks from now, you’ll lead Crowley’s demons into battle against Lucifer’s army. You, however, need to be the one to take on Lucifer himself. Only the Blade and the Mark will be successful against him, and it’s got to be as soon as he rises.”

Dean huffs a sound which could mean anything. “Small print, huh?” He then turns his gaze on Crowley. “So what’s in it for you? You’re probably gonna lose a crapload of demons, so why are you so keen to help?”

Crowley fixes him with a hard stare. “You’re kidding, right? Lucifer has clearly decided that he’s batting for Team Abaddon. He went to the trouble of putting her back together to try and get rid of me. You think he’s going to be impressed to find that _I’m_ still in charge?”

Dean shrugs, evidently not interested. 

Sam turns to Cas, determined not to let Crowley destroy whatever fragile confidence his brother might be able to find.

“What about Heaven? How are the preparations going there?”

“Fine,” the angel replies. “My brothers and sisters have received their instructions. When the battle begins, they will circle the area to contain the fight. Providing Dean can stop Lucifer, this will prevent his army from posing a danger to any humans in the vicinity.”

“Humans,” Crowley interjects, rolling his eyes. “You know saving humanity sounds important, but has anyone stopped to consider the alternative?”

“Shut up, Crowley,” Sam growls.

"I'm just _saying_ , Moose."

“Well don’t.”

OoOoO

It's occurred to them that things might go down just like last time in Stull. Sam can't decide whether that'd be better or worse. As they monitor the signs however, there's nothing to indicate that they'll be returning to the cemetery when Lucifer rises.

Over the next week, Charlie and Sam work endlessly, coordinating all the information coming in from their contacts in the hunting world and cross-referencing it with the weird shit that makes the news. Occasionally Dean shows an interest in what they’re doing, but mostly he sits around doing nothing. For Sam it’s both fascinating and terrifying to watch. He tries to draw Dean into what they’re doing, but he’s starting to think that describing Dean as ‘rusty’ is possibly the biggest understatement of the decade. 

Day after day Dean dresses and acts like he’s still in Fox Pines, waiting for instruction about what to do with his day. Sam gets hold of the necessary anti-psychotic meds Dean was taking in the hospital because it’d be more dangerous just to stop, but he’s hoping that his brother will want to start weaning himself off them now he’s out. 

It quickly becomes clear that while Dean has control of his meds he’s going to carry on taking them in the same quantities, so he advises Dean that _he’s_ going to take charge of them. He’s expecting a battle since Dean’s never really been one for letting others boss him around, but his brother acquiesces willingly. If he thinks Dean will be humiliated by having to come to him at specified points in the day to receive the medication, he’s dead wrong. Dean simply holds out his hand and swallows the pills. At least this way he’s managing to reduce the dosage.

The research keeps Sam busy, which is definitely a good thing. He throws himself into it, knowing time is quickly running out. There are only matter of days before Lucifer is set to return and he’s still got no location and a brother who’s barely functional the majority of the time. Although they haven’t seen Crowley since, Castiel and Charlie are still around, and he senses their growing doubts that Dean will be able to step up to the plate when the time comes.

He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t have his own concerns, but he reminds himself that he needs to show a little faith. He carries on hitting the books and ignores his brother’s apathy, all the while praying for a miracle that everything will come together in the end.

It turns out that Sam's research skills aren't as rusty as he thought, and once the signs start to point towards southern Pennsylvania, it's not long before he's certain that he's found the place.

It’s around 2AM when he finally fits it all together. He sits on the information for about ten minutes before he realises that it can’t wait. He gathers up the books and the printouts he’s amassed and heads to his brother’s room. After listening for a moment, he knocks lightly.

“Come in.”

Inside the room Dean is lying on the bed, still fully dressed. He glances over when Sam walks in.

“Can’t sleep?” Sam asks.

Dean shrugs as best he can with his fingers laced behind his head, a wry smile on his lips.

“It’s weird, you know? I can’t get used to it being so quiet. In hospital there’s always someone on suicide duties asking you to prove that you’re not dead, or one of the patients yelling about crazy crap like how the president is really a Reptilian. I’d forgotten what silence is like.” 

He looks over at Sam, like he’d almost forgotten he’s there. “Any reason you ain’t sawing logs either?”

Sam smiles quickly. “I was reading... and I think I’ve found where Lucifer’s going to rise.”

“Yeah?” Dean sits up and cracks his knuckles noisily. “Any chance it’s Hawaii? The Bahamas?”

“Gettysburg.”

Dean frowns. “As in the _Battle of Gettysburg_ Gettysburg?”

“The very one.” Sam moves to sit on the edge of his brother’s bed. He spreads out his research materials so that they both have eyes on them. “At Devil’s Den.”

Dean looks at him incredulously. “You’re shitting me, right? You know, Sam, racehorses called ‘Speedy Gonzales’ and crap like that are rarely the first past the post.”

“I know it seems a little obvious, but hear me out.”

Dean keeps quiet and makes a gesture for Sam to carry on. Sam points to a black and white photo of the battlefield in Pennsylvania. “Before the Battle of Gettysburg took place here, it was a Native American hunting ground. Legend says during that time it was the location of another bloody conflict called ‘The Battle of the Crows’.”

“So it’s already got form,” Dean says, nodding.

“Exactly.” Sam flips the page to a grainy photograph of a group of boulders on a hillside. Whether it’s the monochrome, but they _look_ sinister, which is ridiculous because they’re just stones. “And this is Devil’s Den. In July, 1863, Confederate and Union troops simultaneously arrived in Gettysburg so naturally the fighting began. The Confederates were struggling to gain any ground, then all of a sudden they’re winning. It seems someone within the ranks of the Confederates knew a little about making deals.”

“ _A crossroads demon?_ ” Dean asks, surprised.

Sam shakes his head. “Try Lucifer himself. A win in exchange for all their souls.”

“But the Confederates _didn’t_ win. Some lousy deal _that_ turned out to be.”

Sam smiles, revelling in the payoff buzz of all those hours of research. “Because they tried to double-cross him. Seems this soldier actually wanted to hang onto his soul, so he then tried to make a deal with Heaven. Lucifer was pissed when he found out, so he didn’t keep his end of the bargain, hence the Union victory.”

“Did he still get the souls?”

“I’m not sure, but between both battles, a _lot_ of men died in that place. The Devil’s Den has already worked as an access point for him, and there are probably hundreds of bodies still in the ground there ready to become an undead army. Given the signs already in southern Pennsylvania, can you think of a better place for him to rise?”

Dean shrugs. “You’ve sold it to me, Sammy.”

They sit in silence for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye Sam watches Dean. He’s started to notice that the tremors associated with the medication Dean’s been taking seem to come in waves. His brother’s obviously self-conscious about them because he casually adjusts his posture so that his hands are beneath him. Sam does the decent thing and pretends not to notice.

“Okay, well I’m gonna go call Cas,” he announces, gathering up his books. Dean nods quickly, evidently relieved either that Sam’s leaving or that he’s not going to say anything about the tremors.

“Sam?”

“Yeah, Dean?”

“I know you think I’m a mess, but I _can_ do it.”

Sam goes to argue, but Dean cuts in first.

“I won’t let you down, Sammy. I’m not gonna let him steal your future.”

Sam frowns. “ _Our_ future, you mean?”

Dean waves a hand at the correction. “Yeah, sure. _Our_ future,” he repeats, although he sounds much less certain. 

OoOoO

Once it’s daylight, they call Castiel and Crowley and put them, along with Charlie, in the picture. The two other worldly beings agree with Sam’s assessment that the triangular field and Devil’s Den in Gettysburg will be the scene of Lucifer’s resurrection, leaving them little else to do but prepare themselves for the main act.

That evening it occurs to Sam that he’s alone with Dean for the first time in three years. Cas and Crowley have gone and Charlie has said she’s got errands to run for Dorothy and will be back tomorrow. Sam doubts it was anything that couldn’t wait, but he’s grateful for her perceptiveness that he and Dean need some time together. 

He realises that he hasn’t seen Dean for a couple of hours, but sounds of life from his brother’s room reassure him that Dean hasn’t done anything he needs to be concerned about. When Dean emerges from his old bedroom Sam knows that he’s staring because _finally_ Dean looks like Dean. The grey uniform of the hospital is gone and he’s wearing jeans, t-shirt and an old plaid shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. For the first time in an age the Mark of Cain isn’t covered. The only anomaly is the hospital identity bracelet, which Dean suddenly glances down at, as if he’s read Sam’s mind.

“Guess I don’t need this anymore,” he says, tugging at the plastic. When it doesn’t give, he goes to one of the drawers and retrieves a knife. He gives a nod of satisfaction once it’s off. His eyes then rise to meet Sam’s and he frowns.

“What?”

Sam smiles. “Sorry, man. It’s just good to see you looking like… well, like my brother again.”

Dean returns the smile, the expression fond and slightly teasing – his usual reaction when Sam is being sentimental.

“Yeah, well, it’s my turn to kick Lucifer's ass again so I figured I should probably make an effort and look the part." Before Sam can respond, Dean sniffs the air. It's clear he's not ready for any kind of heart-to-heart just yet. "Something smells awesome, and I'm not just saying that because it's not hospital food."

Sam enjoys seeing Dean's delight at their meal, although it's hard to shake the feeling that this is like the Last Supper. When they're done eating, Dean suggests they go up to the roof. Sam grabs some beer and snacks and they head up there.

They'd been using the bunker as their home for about two months when Sam had discovered the hatch that allowed them access to a small walled section of the roof. Naturally Dean had known _exactly_ what to do with the space and had promptly purchased a couple of lawn chairs for them.

"I wonder if Charlie comes up here?" Dean muses, as they settle into their seats. The sky is clear, giving them an impressive view of the stars, and for a few minutes they sit and enjoy the stillness of the night.

Sam offers his brother a beer and is surprised when Dean accepts. Seeing Sam's hesitation, Dean shrugs.

"Might as well, huh?"

Sam doesn't reply. He doesn't want to acknowledge what his brother is saying even though they're both realists.

"So how does it feel to be out?" he asks instead.

"Yeah, it feels okay." Dean studies the beer bottle between his fingers and smiles wistfully. "You know, Sammy, when you first suggested that we retire I honestly thought I wouldn't be able to do it. _You?_ Sure, but me?" He laughs to himself and shakes his head. "Then we got the house and it actually felt like things were finally falling into place for us." 

He meets Sam's gaze for the first time since he started talking and his expression is sad. "I'm genuinely sorry that it didn't work out for us, Sammy. I think we'd have been okay." He drifts off and then smiles again, brighter this time. "Still, you finally made a lawyer, Sammy. That's pretty fucking awesome."

Sam smiles too, determined not to let his devastation show since Dean is clearly determined to put a brave face on it. He's lost Dean so many times, but each time it gets harder, not easier. He nods and makes appropriate noises in response to whatever Dean is saying while in his head, he's praying that if God is anywhere and has _any_ clout left in the universe, he'll not make them go through it all again.

OoOoO

Because the tablet held the date, but not the _time_ that Lucifer would rise, the plan is to be there from the night before. Castiel is away making the final preparations with Heaven – his brothers and sisters will all be instrumental in containing Lucifer’s army on the battlefield. Crowley, as far as they’re aware, is doing similar in Hell. 

When it’s time to leave, they say their farewells to Charlie and head for the bunker’s parking garage. They’ve not discussed it, but they both know that they’ll be taking the Impala rather than Sam’s Dodge Charger because she’s a Winchester too and they go to all their big showdowns as a family. Once the trunk is loaded up, Dean climbs behind the wheel, a wistful smile on his face. He touches the steering wheel with a reverence that reminds Sam why he stored the car away and bought his own as soon as he could afford it when Dean was in the hospital. 

They’ve got approximately thirteen hundred miles to cover and once they’re on the open road, Sam quickly finds himself forgetting why they’re travelling and what they’re heading toward. It feels good to be back together, even if Dean’s limited tape collection means that they’ve listened to more Metallica and Zeppelin than any human should have to in one journey.

When they arrive in Gettysburg, they check in with Cas who informs them that the angels are keeping a watch over Devil’s Den, and they’ll call as soon as Dean’s presence is required. With no immediate plans, they find a diner and grab some food, although it’s clear that the thought of what’s to come has put a serious dent in both their appetites. 

Cas calls when they’re debating whether to hit a bar or not. With the decision taken out of their hands, they return to the car and drive to the agreed meeting place. The silence is so heavy with tension that Sam contemplates asking Dean to put Metallica back on.

“You ready for this?” he says eventually, glancing across at Dean in the driver’s seat. His brother is staring straight ahead, but the muscle in his jaw jumps. Dean finally seems to realise that he’s being spoken to and he turns. His expression reveals nothing.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he replies gruffly. 

“You okay?”

This results in a humourless smile from his brother. “No, but when the alternative is letting the world go to Hell in a hand basket, then my ‘okayness’ doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Sam fixes him with a look. “It matters to _me_ , Dean.”

Dean’s smile warms to something more affectionate. “I know,” he says softly.

Up ahead Crowley appears and, seeing the car, jerks his head to indicate that they’re ready.

“Time to go,” Dean announces. 

OoOoO

Crowley says that his demons are in place. The lack of snarky commentary indicates that even the King of Hell himself has pre-performance nerves. The silence is threatening to become awkward when Castiel appears. 

“Okay,” Cas says. “We’re ready.” The angel appears hesitant as he reaches into his trenchcoat’s inner pocket. The tension is palpable as he removes the First Blade.

Dean’s heart rate elevates rapidly. He doesn’t meet Castiel’s gaze, but he can feel the angel’s worry as he studies the canvas parcel that Cas is holding. He holds out his hands for it. 

“It’s okay,” he says when the angel is hesitant to hand it over. Their eyes meet. “I’m good.”

Carefully Cas places the package in his hands. Even wrapped in canvas he can feel the warmth spreading down his arms at the Blade finally being so close and he focuses on his breathing to prevent his thoughts from scrambling. _I’m home_ , the knife seems to be saying to him. _I’m-_

“Dean?”

He realises that Sam is speaking to him. 

“I’m good,” he repeats, then to prove that he isn’t really, adds: “Let’s just get this shit over with, huh?”

“Do you want me to take the Blade?”

Dean hesitates. His body is screaming _don’t you fucking touch it_ , but he nods and gives the parcel to his brother. 

Together they start up the hill in silence. It’s a warm evening and he idly wishes he’d worn a lighter jacket. In the distance the city lights twinkle – a reminder of other people’s lives that have never, and probably will never be theirs. _Ordinary_ is the word he’s reaching for. Growing up, he never wanted ordinary in the way that Sam did, but after their brief flirtation with it, he knows they could have made it work. He can’t help the pang of regret that he only figured it out now that it’s probably too late. 

They reach the summit and he hears Sam’s sharp intake of breath.

“What the _fuck...?_ ”

He figures that pretty much sums it up. Below them, on the darkened plains, stands – at his rough estimation – five hundred people, at least. _Demons_ , his mind corrects. This is his army, the troops he will take into battle against Satan himself, all waiting to follow his instruction. He glances at Sam, who looks at him as if his reservations are about to make themselves known once again.

"Don't say it, Sammy. This has gotta be done."

Sam nods tightly, even though his expression is still unhappy.

“Good luck,” he says. “Go kick his ass.”

“I will, but you’ve gotta promise me that you’ll get out of here, okay?” Dean pauses as he glances over at the parcel in Sam’s hands. “I got lucky after the thing with Abaddon, but if there’s no way back for me this time, then I need to know that you got out of this okay. Taking Lucifer out might mean the end of me, but it’ll also be the end of the Mark. You’ve got a future, Sam, so don’t waste it.”

“Dean…”

“ _Sam_. Please, just tell me you’ll stay out of this. I’m not gonna knock you out like with Metatron because even I can admit that that was a dick move, but I’m _asking_ you. Please - just tell me you’ll do this, for me.”

Sam hates it, but he meets Dean’s gaze and nods. “For you,” he repeats.

OoOoO

Crowley accompanies Dean onto the field. In the darkness the Devil’s Den looms ominously in front of them. Dean stares at it for a moment before he glances over at the King of Hell.

“Well, yeah. I can’t imagine _anything_ bad happening there,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. When Crowley doesn’t respond, he eyes the demon carefully.

“Your... _minions_ ,” Dean says, not bothering to disguise his distaste. “They know what to do, right?”

Crowley does turn now. “On this occasion I’ve deferred to your expertise on the matter. I’ve told them not to leave anything you could put a hat on.”

Dean nods. Since zombie lore is sketchy at best, they’re gonna go with the tried and tested method of destroying the heads. There won’t be time to start burning them immediately, but it should hopefully buy them a little time. As he’s watching, Crowley’s expression suddenly darkens and his eyes turn red. The demons closest to them are all suddenly sporting black eyes. Dean opens his mouth to say something before he realises why they’ve reacted like this.

Surrounding the perimeter of the battlefield are angels – a silent, stoic presence providing a barrier between what will take place here and the real world. Their wings aren’t visible, but somehow it’s possible to sense them, unfurled and majestic. No wonder the demons are freaking out.

“Hey,” Dean growls at Crowley. “Now’s not the time to go all _West Side Story_ on me, okay?”

Crowley reacts to the comment and his eyes are suddenly normal again. His demons appear to follow suit and the tension reduces a fraction. It coincidences with a slight tremor beneath their feet.

“You feel that?” Dean asks, frowning.

Before Crowley can answer it happens again, but more violently this time. Dean doesn’t hesitate; he reaches into his jacket and withdraws the First Blade. The tremors grow more frequent and for a moment he wonders if the ground’s about to open up beneath him. Suddenly, in between one blink and next, he’s face to face with the tattered grey uniform of a Confederate soldier, who raises his rifle because this clearly isn’t one of his fellow troops.

“Fuck,” Dean snarls, stumbling back a step. He doesn’t know if the soldier’s weapon will actually work, but he’s not about to take the chance. Bringing the Blade up, he severs the soldier’s head. He’s always amazed by how cleanly it cuts through things, given that it’s made of old donkey teeth and he forces himself to focus on that, rather than succumb to surging influence of the Mark and its partner in crime. Now the immediate danger is averted, he’s able to glance around, to see what’s going on. Unsurprisingly, Crowley has vanished.

“Holy shit,” he breathes because the battlefield has suddenly gotten a _whole lot_ more crowded. Crowley’s demons are engaged in combat with a mix of hundreds of Confederate soldiers and Native American warriors. Despite the chaos, he realises that he’s calm - the Blade is giving him the clarity that he both craves and fears. 

Despite his efforts to channel them out, he can hear the Blade and the Mark whispering to him, begging him to join in with the killing. Their voices are growing in volume, horribly harmonised, and he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to hold them off. With a confidence he’s not exactly feeling, he tells them to go fuck themselves because he’s got a job to do. He leaves Crowley’s demons to it and starts to make his way towards Devil’s Den.

He’s studying the boulders, trying to figure out whether he should climb on top or try to get into the centre of the formation when he realises that, through an impossibly small crevice, a figure is emerging. Behind him, the melee between demon and undead continues, but the sounds fade into the background because the star of the show is finally here.

Like Abaddon, Lucifer is another demon who appears to have a fondness for a certain meatsuit. It's strange to see him after so many years, but the familiarity is also somewhat reassuring. At least he knows that he's not about to kill someone innocent. Lucifer appears to be trying to find someone - Abaddon presumably.

"Looking for someone?" Dean asks.

Lucifer notices him and frowns. A smile isn't far behind, because he's nothing if not a pro.

"Dean Winchester. Fancy seeing you here."

He smiles too. "If you're waiting for Abaddon then give it up. She's not coming. I killed her. Again."

Lucifer seems to process this, but doesn't appear unduly concerned. "Why'd they send you, Dean? You and Sam like to takes turns with everything? You wanted _your_ turn at not stopping me now?"

"Big words, _Lucy_. How was the cage, by the way?"

"Lonely without your brother to keep me warm."

Dean bristles, but resists the urge to show it. Lucifer would undoubtedly get a kick out of his anger, especially when Sam is the subject. Unfortunately, his medication-induced muscle spasms pick that particular moment to kick in. Lucifer smiles, delighted.

“You okay there, Dean? You're looking a little shaky.”

“Peachy. Admittedly, I’d be better if you were dead. So how’s about we rectify that, huh?”

"So what? You're gonna whip out your little water pistol again and shoot me?"

"The Colt?" Dean laughs and shakes his head. "Did you not keep up with the news while you were in the cage? There's a new kid in town now." 

He raises the First Blade, previously hidden by the shadows. It's satisfying to see Lucifer's poker face slip, even just for a fraction of a second. He knows he needs to act quickly though, because the Mark and the Blade are now screaming at him like a sadistic drill sergeant and if he loses control then there will be no reining him in to ensure that it’s Lucifer that he kills. 

"Very nice,” Lucifer replies, “You know it's useless on me, right?"

"Oh, I'm not sure I'd go as far as describing it as 'useless'. Not when the Mark of Cain's involved too." Dean steps forward, closing the distance between them. He tilts his head, a lazy smile on his face that’s completely at odds with the molten rage searing through his being. His humanity is well and truly ablaze now and he knows it’s only a matter of time before it’s gone forever. 

With his rapidly fleeing lucidity he prays that Lucifer’s demise will take him with it, so there are no blackened remains of his soul for Sam to pick through. This time the Mark will have him completely, leaving behind a Dean Winchester-shaped monster that his loved ones will have no choice but to destroy. He doesn’t want that for his brother.

“See, when I get ahold of this thing,” he gestures with the Blade, making sure Lucifer sees the Mark burned onto his arm, “well, what can I say, all hell seems to break loose. In fact, some have called me ‘The One Who Destroys Everything’. Does that ring any bells?”

" _You?_ " Lucifer snarls. " _You're_ the one?" The snarl becomes a vicious grin. “It can’t be you. A high school drop out with daddy issues and zero self esteem? You’re not even _remotely_ worthy.”

Dean ignores the insults. "How about we find out, huh?"

Before Lucifer can respond, Dean lunges toward him. His aim is true and the knife disappears all the way up to the hilt. Lucifer’s expression collapses in on itself, all pain and fury and terror. An animalistic howl threatens to split the earth because this is it: someone has finally defeated the devil himself, with a curse and a weapon designed by the demon himself. Lucifer staggers backwards, his hands flailing as he tries to reach for the blade to pull it from his chest. His fingers find the handle, but it’s too late.

“That’s for Sam,” Dean growls. 

Lucifer’s vessel drops to the floor, sparking now as the Blade’s power annihilates him. Dean steps back, instinctively wanted to put some distance between them, no matter how ineffective it might be. Instead though, he forces himself to remain close. Inside his head, the Mark is howling in outrage, but he’s comforted by it because it means the Mark and the Blade know that their days are finally numbered. The sparking is becoming more frequent, giving Lucifer a glow that says he’s about to go nuclear. 

Dean covers his eyes, knows it probably won’t do any good. A noise, shrill and penetrating, grows in intensity until his ear drums threaten to burst. He’s no longer watching Lucifer’s demise now because he’s coming apart at the seams too. _At least I didn’t fail this time_ , he thinks. _Sucks that I’m dying, but at least I can be the hero and not the villain._

He realises that this must be what it means to be at peace, so he lets go. He’s good with this. The only sadness he feels is because he knows that Sam will grieve for him. Ultimately Sam will be okay though, because he has a life and people who love him. He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay...

Everything goes white.

OoOoO

Sam paces like a tiger, all the time mentally repeating the mantra that he promised Dean that he’d stay away. It’s fair to say that the wait is killing him. In the distance, the lights of the nearest town remind him that normal life is carrying on, not far from this place. Families are eating, talking, laughing. People watch the next episode of their favourite shows and bicker over whose turn it is to load the dishwasher. It’s incredible to think that there are demons and angels all going to war against the Devil himself, and yet no one in that town will ever know.

Unless, of course, Dean fails.

The angels’ barrier means that there’s no sound either. Cas is down there too so he’s got no one to occupy him from assuming the worst. The minutes pass with agonising slowness. He wonders how Dean’s feeling now – is he fearful of what the Mark may turn him into or is he experiencing the old familiar buzz of the fight? He shuts his mind down as it wanders towards the third option – that Dean is completely in his element because he’s basically no longer Dean anymore and the gravitational pull of killing is inescapable because of the Mark’s power. 

Dimly, he becomes aware that his phone is vibrating in his pocket. He snatches it out to see Charlie’s name on the caller ID.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Sam. Sorry to call. Can you talk?”

He glances back towards the scene of nothingness. “Yeah. What’s up?”

“I’m monitoring everything here and within the last few minutes things have gone crazy – like _seriously_ crazy.” Her voice betrays her fear. “I think he’s coming.”

Instinctively, his eyes are drawn back to the battlefield, to the empty darkness that he knows isn’t real. Even to just see the angels standing on the periphery would be _something_ , an indication that such an earth-shattering event is even taking place. His mind drifts back to Dean and the sacrifices they’ve both made to keep an oblivious world safe from utter annihilation. There’s not enough money in the _world_ to meet the personal cost to them.

“Sam? You still there?” 

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, returned to himself by the sound of her voice on the line. “You’re probably right; there’s just nothing to see here-”

The words have barely left his lips when there’s a flash. It’s so bright, that the sky lights up completely and, for that moment, night is temporarily day. There’s still no sound, which adds to the surrealism. He’s no idea what’s just happened, but somehow he knows it’s signalled something devastating and that whatever it is, it’s _over_.

“Charlie, I’ve gotta go.” He slides his phone back into his pocket, not even certain that he’s ended the call first and then he’s running, heart pounding at what he might find. 

Suddenly, he realises that the angels are coming into view. The air shimmers, like a night time mirage and then they’re there – a perfect circle of hundreds of ordinary-looking people silently holding hands to surround the battlefield. He realises too that the scene beyond them is also coming into view and he stops for a moment to survey it from his vantage point atop the hill. 

Bodies litter the ground – demons and members of Lucifer’s undead army united in death. There are demons still standing, but they look dazed as the fighting has ceased completely. He scans the area frantically even though he knows where it was that Dean was heading. 

As his eyes fall upon Devil’s Den he realises that the surrounding area is completely clear. Instantly, he’s reminded of the blast radius that encircled Dean when he killed Abaddon in the warehouse and his heart takes flight in panic once more. It might be his imagination, but he’s sure there’s a figure lying motionless within that space.

He sets off running again, his speed lethal as he picks up momentum on the slope downwards. He’s rapidly approaching the line of angels and it occurs to him that they might not let him through. Anger and fear ignite at the thought of being kept from Dean now, but his escalating emotions aren’t needed because the angels turn and part for him. 

Beyond this heavenly boundary he runs smack bang into demons – hundreds of them – their black eyes studying his approach. Although he’s armed, there are too many of them for him to take on and he knows, in his haste to get to his brother, that he’s put himself in grave danger.

“Look,” he says, raising his hands in placation. “I’ve no beef with you, not now. _Please_ , just let me through.”

A few of them step towards him. Some are grinning, because he’s a gift delivered straight into their hands. He thinks of Ruby’s knife nestled inside his jacket and wonders how many he can take down before they overwhelm him.

“Moose.”

Crowley is standing to his right, hands dug into the pockets of his trench coat. He’s wearing a smile that Sam instinctively doesn’t like the look of.

“Going somewhere?”

“Crowley,” Sam warns. “Don’t do this. Not now.”

The demon makes a face like he’s insulted. 

“Oh, come on, Moose. Surely even you can see the temptation? Things would be great, _copacetic_ even, without either of you Winchesters around.”

Sam ignores the fact that Crowley’s implying Dean’s dead. “We’ve helped you and this is your way of saying thanks?”

“What? Like you thanked me all those years ago when I helped you rescue your brother from Abaddon? Really, Sam, the sheer hypocrisy is setting my teeth on edge.”

“Crowley. Just let me go to my brother.”

There’s a pause that drags on, laden with tension because the outcome of this moment will define what comes next. Crowley’s demons are waiting for their orders, but their eagerness is clear. They’ll attack him with brutal alacrity should Crowley give the nod. The King of Hell studies him for a moment and then shakes his head.

“Just get out of here, Moose. Before I change my mind.”

Sam doesn’t need telling twice. He sets off, briefly catching a glimpse of the disappointment on the faces of those demons closest by. Crowley’s voice echoes through the night – never one to miss the opportunity for a parting shot.

“Of course, if the Mark brings your brother back with black eyes, feel free to send him my way again. For some reason I’m in the mood for a little karaoke.”

Crowley calling off his demons means that he can move across the battlefield unimpeded. Turns out, Lucifer’s undead army have returned to being dead, presumably as a result of whatever occurred when everything went bright for that brief moment. He can only hope that means that Dean was successful.

He heads in the direction of the area he observed from his vantage point. There are no demons here and the bodies stop as if there was an invisible force field around this part of the battlefield. The grass is scorched to nothingness and in the middle of the burned earth Dean is lying face down, unmoving. 

He’s on his knees beside his brother in an instant. He knows that he’s saying Dean’s name over and over, but the sound of his voice won’t carry above the dread that threatens to squeeze the life out of him once and for all. He feels for a pulse, willing his hand to steady so that he can be sure that if he finds something, he’s feeling his brother’s heartbeat and not his own terror.

He finds it, loses it, then finds it again. It’s not particularly strong, but there’s definitely _something_ there. Reassured, he turns Dean over and cradles his body. He can’t help but notice that the Mark of Cain is still on his brother’s arm and his heart sinks. Although he’d never said as much to Dean, he’d hoped that vanquishing Lucifer would somehow remove the Mark, since Lucifer was the one who’d given it to Cain in the first place. It figures they wouldn’t get that lucky.

Without warning, Dean’s eyes fly open and he gasps violently. 

“I did it,” he wheezes, but before Sam can say anything, he’s out cold again, his features falling slack once more.

Sam’s panic resurfaces a moment before he remembers that they’re surrounded by beings, all of whom have the ability to heal. He pulls Dean’s body into his arms and gets himself to his feet, feeling older than he ever has before. At least Crowley’s called his demons off.

“I need help here,” he yells before he looks up from his brother to see if any of them are going to respond to his plea.

But they’re not, because the angels and the demons and all of the bodies that littered the area are now gone, vanished like the end of the world _didn’t_ just get averted here.

“What the hell...?” he mutters. He looks around frantically, aware of the growing weight of his brother in his arms. “Cas!”

His voice is swallowed by the night. Castiel has disappeared too, leaving he and Dean alone. The Impala is parked about half a mile away, giving him the unenviable task of carrying the dead weight of his brother back up the hill to the vehicle that he hopes will act as an ambulance rather than a hearse.

He tries to ignore the fact that its colour makes it better suited as the latter. 

OoOoO

Dean figures that everything that comes after must be a dream. 

He sees people that he knows are dead – his parents, Ellen, Bobby. It occurs to him that he’s dead too, and yet, something about that doesn’t seem right. After a while he realises that he’s _not_ actually seeing these people – more that he’s _feeling_ them and his mind is supplying the memories of what they looked like.

They speak to him too; their communications are without sound, but he understands every word they’re saying. When they leave he realises he can’t remember what they were telling him. He’s alone again then, in the white nothingness.

Time passes and he realises that incrementally, the empty landscape is growing darker. Once again he becomes aware that he’s not alone, but the presence this time feels ominous and threatening. He wonders if he’s back in Hell and this is just a new form of torture dreamed up by someone more subtle than Alistair and his penchant for visceral delights. The slow creeping dread sends chills up the spine he’s no longer sure that he has. He wonders how long he’ll be able to withstand the agony this time.

But there’s something else too. On his hand, or at least where he assumes that his hand is, he can feel a pressure that regularly intrudes on the emptiness. It takes him a while to figure out that what he can feel are movements. It takes him longer still to work out that there’s a regular pattern to them.

Despite the overwhelming fear and loneliness, he forces himself to focus. When the pressure begins again, he follows the movements in his mind. The first time, he loses his train of thought halfway through and he has to wait until it starts up again. It takes a further three attempts but when the movements stop on the fourth occasion he’s certain what it is.

Someone is tracing letters on his outstretched palm – three letters, to be precise. 

Someone is writing SAM.

OoOoO

It’s been eight days since they reclaimed Dean from the battlefield. Eight days since Castiel, who had appeared once they were back at the bunker, emerged from Dean’s room and told Sam what they were up against.

_He’s alive, but Lucifer’s undoing has left Dean damaged._

_Damaged how?_

_He’s blind, Sam, and deaf._

_What?_

_He will have glimpsed Lucifer’s true form in the moments before death. You’re aware of what it does to humans when they see an angel’s true form so this is much worse. I’m sorry, Sam._

_No! Why the fuck can’t Dean catch a break, huh? He risked his life to save the fucking world and this is the thanks he gets? He’s still stuck with the Mark and now this? He’s given enough – we’ve both given enough! You need to do something, Cas. Tell those feathered assholes what Dean did and make them fix it. They owe him! Tell them, Cas. Make them fucking listen..._

He doesn’t remember at what point Cas split – soon, he hopes because his rage had quickly given way to sobs that had only ceased when his eyes were red and raw and his throat was hoarse. _Dean won’t survive this_ , had been his overwhelming thought.

Since that awful moment, there have been no signs that Dean is about to regain consciousness. Cas has assured him that Dean’s life is not in danger, so all they can do is wait. He’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t torn though – obviously he wants Dean conscious, but part of him is okay with how things are because like this, Dean is oblivious to the fact that his life has changed catastrophically yet again.

After he googles ‘deaf blind’, he starts to sit with his brother and trace his name on Dean’s hand. He wants Dean to know that he’s there, so he repeats the action over and over just in case anything is registering. He does it again now, producing each letter slowly and carefully on his brother’s palm.

“Anything?” Charlie says gently, as she stands just inside the doorway and studies the figure hunched over in the chair.

Sam forces himself to straighten. His back protests the movement angrily, but he ignores it and shakes his head. He knows he looks like shit and that everyone’s just being too polite to say it. 

“Not yet.” He winces at how desperate he sounds. “But Dean’s strong. He can get through this.”

And he’s not lying when he says that. What he’s terrified of is that Dean might not _want_ to.

OoOoO

Sam is dozing in the chair when Dean regains consciousness. He’s awake in an instant when his brother’s fist connects solidly with his side.

“Sam! _Sam!_ ” Dean yells, his voice heavy with fear and confusion as he goes to sit up. Sam tries to grab Dean’s hand to fingerspell his name again, but Dean’s striking out and all that he succeeds in getting is a punch in the face for his trouble. The door behind them opens and Castiel appears. The angel frowns at the bizarre scene he’s just walked into.

“Cas!” Sam barks, trying to block the blows. “Talk to Dean, explain what’s happened to him!”

The angel doesn’t speak out loud, but Dean ceases his attack almost instantly. He’s suddenly still and his head tilts slightly, like he’s listening to someone talking. Helpless, Sam watches his brother’s expression, wondering if he’ll be able to tell when Castiel has explained what Dean currently can’t make sense of.

Dean’s head is bowed and as the seconds pass his lips draw into a thin line and his eyes narrow. He gives a sharp nod in response to something Cas has said. It’s frustrating not to know what they’re saying and just when Sam’s about to make that point Cas turns to him.

“Dean wanted to know if he was successful against Lucifer. I’ve explained to him that he was, but that his senses have been permanently damaged as a result. He says it’s a small price to pay if it means that Lucifer is finally gone. He also says thanks.”

Sam frowns. “Thanks? Thanks for what?”

“You saved him.” Cas gestures to his hand. “Your persistence in letting him know you were there brought him back. He wants you to know that he’s grateful.”

Sam nods, then swallows the lump in his throat and smiles. When he speaks, his voice has dropped to a pitch more reminiscent of his brother.

“Yeah? Tell him it’s really good to _have_ him back. Tell him that I’m proud of him and that I love him.”

After a moment of silence the angel frowns. “Dean says it’s good to be back... and that you’re forgetting the chick flick rule. I have no idea what that means.”

Despite the emotion Sam laughs. “ _I_ do, so tell him ‘tough’.”

He studies Dean and watches as his brother smiles. 

“Bitch,” Dean says suddenly, his voice strong and true.

Sam reaches for Dean’s hand and starts to write ‘jerk’. He’s only gotten to the ‘r’ when Dean snatches his hand back and laughs.

It’s early days, but maybe things will be okay after all.

OoOoO

He has no idea how, but a month passes with alarming rapidity. The weather is pleasant, and Dean opts to spend most of his time outside, basking in the warmth of the sun and enjoying the breeze on his skin. His brother washes the car often, mapping every inch of her metal body with his fingertips, seemingly taking comfort in that familiar activity.

Through necessity, they begin to develop their own rudimentary tactile form of communication – real objects and finger spelling. Sam starts to research learning Braille, but for now, they focus on getting through one day at a time.

Castiel comes by as often as he can. The angel acts as an interpreter so that they can converse – Dean now responses to these mental conversations out loud so that Cas only has to pass on Sam’s parts in the discussion. Sam knows they’re lucky to have this option available to them to help prevent the sense of isolation that Dean must undoubtedly feel.

Sam knows he needs to broach the subject of him returning to work, but he doesn’t know where to start. He can’t imagine what it must feel like to be in Dean’s shoes, denied his most important senses and every time he goes to start the conversation, he chickens out. He’s appraised his boss of the situation - with some obvious changes to the details - so as far as work’s concerned, he’s acting as his brother’s caregiver through this difficult period of readjustment.

One positive they both become aware of is that Dean’s tremors and spasms have stopped. There’s no explanation for it, but they both chalk it up as a win. Sam throws Dean’s medication in the trash.

OoOoO

Cas shows up unexpectedly one day while they’re sitting outside together. Unusually, Hannah is with him, and their expressions are solemn. Sam experiences that lurch of fear that something is wrong. Dean breaks into his thoughts by calling his name. He’s frowning, like he intuitively knows that someone is here.

"Cas? What's going on?" he asks as he takes Dean's hand and finger spells the angel's name. Dean nods and says, "Hey, Cas."

“Dean’s sacrifice did not go unnoticed,” Hannah says gently. “So I come with an offer; Heaven’s gesture of gratitude, if you will.”

Sam glances over at Castiel, trying to gauge if the angel knows what the offer – or, more importantly, the terms – will be. Unsurprisingly, Cas’s expression gives nothing away.

“Lucifer’s annihilation shifted the balance of power in the world,” Hannah explains. “The removal of so much darkness would seem like a good thing, but there has to be equilibrium. We need to restore this, so the excess light can be used to repay Dean in one of two ways.”

She glances over at his brother, who sits unmoving in the chair. “We can remove the Mark of Cain... or we can make him whole by restoring his sight and hearing.”

“Not both?” Sam responds, knowing he sounds like an ungrateful asshole, but not particularly caring. “You want me to tell him this and then expect him to choose? Jesus...”

“Sam,” Dean says firmly. “It’s okay.”

He jumps slightly, before it hits him: Hannah has communicated directly with Dean’s mind, just as Cas does whenever he visits. Dean’s already heard everything she’s said.

“I can give you time to think about it, Dean,” Hannah says, but Dean shakes his head in response.

“Don’t need it. You can remove the Mark.”

“Dean! Don’t you want to at least think about it first?” Sam says quickly before he remembers that Dean can’t hear him. He looks at Hannah pointedly, who nods before turning back to face Dean.

“Your brother wants you to think about it first,” she says, glancing at Sam.

“Sam,” Dean says, somehow managing to be facing him despite the lack of sight and sound. “There’s nothing to think about. There’s no cure for the Mark, hell, you’ve been looking for _years_ now. Getting rid of it puts everyone out of danger and I can’t say the same for getting my senses back, no matter how bad I might want that.

“Remember why we retired, Sammy?” Dean continues, as if he knows when he stops talking Sam will come in with another argument to try and make him change his mind. “It was so innocent people didn’t die bloody. _You_ said that. When that went sideways, I locked myself away for almost three years so more people wouldn’t die because of me.” He stops for a moment and raises his arm as if he’s looking at it. Even without his sight, Sam knows his brother is seeing the affliction that has cursed him for so long now.

“I don’t wanna be this way, Sammy, but if I don’t get rid of the Mark, then I’m gonna have to go back to living out my days at somewhere like Fox Pines, always wondering if someone’s gonna come for me with the Blade, like Abaddon did.” He swallows hard and his voice grows brittle. “I can have my freedom, Sam. I can have a _future_.”

At that, Sam reaches out and grasps Dean’s shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze. He knows Dean is right and that he shouldn’t be trying to change his mind.

“I can stay here, Sammy. In our _home_ ,” Dean says softly. “Granted, I’m not sure how great I’ll be at the home improvements now, but still...”

Sam’s crying now. He turns to Hannah once again, and in a shaky voice says, “Tell Dean... tell Dean I’m with him, if that’s what he truly wants.”

Hannah nods. Her expression is sympathetic and he’s starting to understand why Cas has developed a kinship with her.

“I wish I could do more,” she replies, her tone gentle. She moves to towards Dean and kneels down in front of him. He doesn’t flinch when she takes his hands in hers. 

“Dean? Sam wants you to know that he supports your decision. You know, when I first re-connected with Castiel, I could never understand why he would risk so much for you and your brother. I thought he was so stubborn.” She pauses and smiles at the memory. “Even coming to learn a little more about humans didn’t fully help me appreciate how special you are, you and Sam.”

She reaches up and takes his face in her hands gently. Dean’s unseeing eyes close as he silently accepts the tender caress. 

“I’m glad that I can do this for you, Dean Winchester. I just wish I could do more. Now let’s get this thing off your arm.” Her hands drop now to the cover the Mark.

“Look away, Sam,” Cas instructs as a warm, white light begins to envelope Dean and the angel kneeling in front of him.

Even through his closed eyelids everything seems too bright. He’s about to call out, fearful for Dean, when it suddenly stops. He blinks a few times to clear his vision and discovers everyone is where he left them. His eyes are then drawn to his brother’s arm, to the source of everything that has gone wrong for them over the last few years.

It’s gone.

Dean’s forearm bears no signs of the scar, the skin now smooth and blemish-free. The grin is spreading on Sam’s face when he glances up and sees his brother’s expression.

“Dean? _Dean?_ Are you okay, man?” he asks, in his panic forgetting that he won’t get an answer.

“I... I can _hear_ you, Sammy,” his brother replies, sounding utterly lost. Dean looks up at him now and his brow creases into a frown. “And you’re there... I mean... I can’t see you _exactly_ , but I can tell it’s you. You’re the only person I know who’s so goddamned tall.”

Sam laughs, daring to hope that a miracle has happened. He steps forward as Hannah moves to stand. He notes she’s smiling too. Dean is looking at his hands, waving them around to try and track the movements.

“What happened?” Sam asks, looking between Hannah and Cas. The question seems to wake Dean from his trance and he looks up too. “You said it was one or the other. If the Mark’s gone, then why can Dean hear and see?”

Hannah smiles and shrugs, the actions making her look more human than ever.

“It seems that it didn’t take as much power to remove the Mark as I thought it would. The residual light has gone some way to restoring Dean’s senses.”

“I- I don’t understand,” Dean says, clearly still stunned. “I mean, I’m damned grateful, but I don’t get it. There’s always a catch.” Dean glances over at Sam, narrowing his eyes, presumably in an attempt to see better. “Tell me you didn’t make a deal with anyone, Sammy.”

He’s about to ask _when_ exactly Dean thinks that he’s had chance to make a deal with anyone, but given that Dean was completely deaf and blind until a few moments ago, it’s clear his brother thinks that he’s had ample opportunity to do something he wouldn't agree with.

“No, Dean. I didn’t, I swear.”

“I can understand your cynicism, Dean,” Hannah interjects, “But the answer is simple. It seems that the Mark didn’t have as deep a hold as everyone assumed.” She smiles at him warmly. “Cain might have thought you were worthy of the Mark, but it’s clear that there’s more good in you than even you realised. Some people seem to see it though.” 

Her gaze slips to Castiel and, watching the silent communication, Sam realises that Hannah clearly has feelings towards their friend. She notices Sam looking and steps back, smoothing the front of her blazer with both hands.

“I should be going,” she announces. “I’ll see you soon, Castiel?”

“You will,” Cas replies, and it’s clear the affection is returned, despite his neutral demeanour. “I should go too.”

The angels are gone in a flurry of wings, leaving them to contemplate how everything in their lives has shifted yet again, this time for the better. Sam recalls something Pastor Jim used to say about how they would get their rewards in Heaven. Maybe, for once, someone figured they were due for something a little sooner.

“So,” he says to Dean, who’s still obviously in disbelief at what’s just happened. It’s clear that it’s just occurred to his brother that he finally has a future too, whatever the challenges that may lie ahead. “You ready to enjoy your retirement now?”

“Sounds good to me, Sammy. _Sounds good to me_.” Dean grins suddenly. “Now I’ve just got to get me some slippers...”

“No slippers, Dean!”

**On to the Epilogue...**


	4. Epilogue

Sam’s never really understood the expression ‘everything happens for a reason’ until now. It always seemed like something people said because they inherently hated the idea that crap could _just happen_. This though... this _does_ feel like more like providence than coincidence. What’s most surprising is that it’s _Dean_ who's put that idea in his head.

After Hannah’s visit, Dean agrees to have his eyesight and hearing tested. They secure appointments with the respective consultants in Topeka and discover that Dean’s severely blurred vision is reminiscent of macular degeneration, a condition most typically seen in the elderly. Out of earshot of the optometrist, Dean laughs and says if his forty years in Hell are added to his chronological age, a few old-age problems seem entirely reasonable. 

Sam researches this type of sight loss and quietly freaks out at the simulations he finds on YouTube. The specialist says Dean's case is severe - in good light he'll be able to make out shapes, but his eyes are too damaged to make out any detail, so essentially he's still blind. 

He talks to Dean about it, because he feels like he needs to say _something_ , but Dean simply shrugs and reminds Sam that he’s viewing it from the perspective of what he’s _lost_. He, on the other hand, views it as what he’s _gained_ , because after a period of time spent completely deaf and blind, he’s gonna be damned grateful for what he has. Sam knows he can’t argue with that, because if Dean’s okay, then that’s all that matters. 

With a hearing loss classed as mild to go with his visual impairment, Dean argues that he’s got enough to get by with... yet, by his own admission, not enough to hunt safely with. So their retirement won’t – _can’t_ – be jeopardised by any changes of heart. _That’s_ the part that Dean says feels like providence – divine intervention to make sure they take the peace that they so surely deserve. 

Sam goes back to work. When his boss talks about making him a partner, he smiles a genuine smile this time and says he’d be honoured to be considered. He works long hours, but he’s also conscious of achieving a good work-life balance. They haven’t survived the apocalypse and everything in between for him to spend the rest of his days behind a desk.

Fulfilling the promise he made to the couple who treated him like a son as well as offering him employment, Sam regularly visits Keith and Clara Lee for dinner. When they realise that his brother is back, they insist that Dean joins them too. Sam’s initially uncomfortable with the invitation - the Lees are aware Dean was in Fox Pines and if they know anything about the place, they’ll be surely wondering how the hell his brother is at liberty now.

Three years is also a long time for Sam to remember who else amongst Harmony’s residents might know about Dean’s situation. He wants them to be able to live quietly and unobtrusively within the small and relatively close-knit community, but how could people _not_ be curious about them? When they first moved into town, Dean was a familiar visitor to the hardware store and their old but immaculately maintained car drew attention wherever they went. Then Dean disappears for three years and returns partially deaf and blind? _Yeah, nothing gossip-worthy there._

They’ve discussed what they _could_ tell people, but in such a small town, stories have a way of coming unravelled pretty quickly and they don’t want to jeopardise things when they’re finally getting settled. Sam mentions it to Cas one day, when he and Dean are trying to come up with yet another excuse for why Dean can’t make it for dinner with the Lees.

Cas listens, then says: “Accept the invitation and leave it with me.” He promptly disappears.

Dean, who has no difficulty hearing anything that Castiel says, rolls his eyes. “Jesus. You don’t think he’s gonna smite them do you?”

Sam panics momentarily before reminding himself that although the angel still sees most things in black and white, he’s not completely oblivious to the shades of grey anymore.

It transpires that he should have had a little more faith. Castiel has obviously relayed their predicament to Heaven and the response is both prompt and effective. The following morning, the people of Harmony wake up with entirely new memories of the newcomers in town. 

For instance, they know they’re brothers who bought the old Thomson place a few years back. The younger one is a lawyer and the older brother had a terrible accident that severely damaged his sight. No one’s exactly sure how it happened, but they _do_ know he was doing something selfless and heroic, and therefore it’d be rude to ask for the details. Similarly, the Lees have completely forgotten about Dean’s stay in a secure psychiatric hospital, which makes socialising with them a whole lot less awkward. The same goes, Sam discovers, for his boss, who was also privy to the information about Dean’s ‘condition’.

They work on the house together. Slowly but surely, the jobs get done. Sam has to take a more active role this time as Dean’s eyesight makes some of the tasks too difficult for him to manage alone, but they work together, sharing the satisfaction of a job well done as the house finally takes shape. 

As the home improvements come to an end, Sam grows concerned about what Dean will do next. Once again, providence appears to step in. The solution presents itself when they’re eating at the diner in town and a guy comes over to ask about their car, because he’s seen it sitting outside in the parking lot. Naturally, he speaks to Sam, because he assumes the driver must be the owner and it’s not likely to be the visually impaired guy that he’s with. Sam shifts awkwardly, because being unable to drive is the one thing he knows Dean wishes were different, but he still introduces his brother and explains that the Impala is his.

The guy – Carl - explains that he’s also got a classic car – a ’67 Camaro – but he’s struggling with the restoration, particularly when it comes to the work needed under the hood. They chat, and exchange numbers and Dean agrees to take a look at the car that weekend.

Turns out this guy has friends who are doing the same. Dean quickly gets a reputation as a competent mechanic, particularly with cars that have, quite literally, been around the block. Someone then suggests he should go into business – it’s an off the cuff comment, but it’s certainly not the worst idea in the world. It takes some work convincing Dean that he could do it, but eventually he decides he’ll give it a try.

They rent a unit in town, initially for six months. There’s a garage in Harmony already, so Dean focuses on restoration of classic motors, ensuring that there’s no friction between them. They send business each other’s way so the two places co-exist peacefully within the small town. 

Knowing Dean’s targeting a niche market, Charlie develops an internet presence for the business and as the work starts to roll in, it quickly becomes clear that he can’t do it alone. He wants perfection, but his physical limitations prevent him from achieving this, so with the jobs piling up, he has no choice but to take on employees.

They wind up employing two good guys, Danny and Walt, who thankfully don’t query the slightly unusual interview process they’re subjected to, involving water (holy) and the holding of certain objects (silver). They also happily overlook their boss’s idiosyncrasies (salt, _everywhere_ ) and his insistence on painting unusual symbols on the body shop floor. Danny is present one day when a customer jokingly asks Dean if they’re trying to summon the devil with those symbols, a question that reduces the boss to peals of helpless laughter. 

No one asks him what’s so funny.

**End**


End file.
